


A Way Things Should Be

by LullabyKnell



Series: Lullabyknell's Hobbit Stories [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Character Interpretation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bilbo is So Done, Canon Rewrite, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Growth, Complete, Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, Crack and Angst, Culture Shock, Explicit Language, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Happy Ending, Hobbit Culture & Customs, Humor, Introspection, Light Angst, Mild Gore, Mild Language, Miscommunication, No Slash, Not Canon Compliant, POV Bilbo Baggins, POV Third Person Limited, Personal Growth, Proper Hobbitish, Quest of Erebor, Self-Indulgent, Swearing, Universe Alteration, Unreliable Narrator, Wordcount: 50.000-100.000, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-07 01:33:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 53,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8777860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/pseuds/LullabyKnell
Summary: In the Shire, hobbits say, "What lovely weather we've having." They also stir their teacups for four and a half clockwise rotations, place their left elbow seven-eighths down the way of the arm rest, and sniffled pointedly, which roughly translates to: "This tea is over-steeped and bland, your furniture is both uncomfortable and horrifically tasteless, and you're a twit of a host."And I think that's beautiful.~Hobbitish is a language of manners and etiquette, the dwarves don't even know that Hobbitish is a thing, and Bilbo is trying to keep a straight face and his peace of mind while the Company unintentionally keeps sexually propositioning him and challenging him to pie-eating contests to the death.~Actions speak so much louder than words.





	1. An Introduction to Proper Hobbitish

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! You might be thinking that you've seen this fic before or wondered where it went for a while. Firstly, let me reassure you that I am the original author! Secondly, let me explain that I took this fic down to rewrite it - I originally wrote (and finished) AWTSB on a whim and later decided that I wasn't entirely happy with it, so I took it down to rework it and it took a while. Thirdly, let me assure you that it will not be vastly different, I'm mostly just changing a few things about the overall tone of the fic, the heart and humor of it are still very much there. 
> 
> If you haven't seen this fic before, then hello to you too! Welcome! AWTSB is a thoroughly ridiculous story which is basically just canon with a few twists and a lot of crack humor; it is written for the ridiculous premise and humor, not for a terribly original plot. This is a gen fic, so I'm sorry, but there won't be any pairings or slash - this fic is completed too, so I won't be changing my mind on this - but I hope to warm your heart with some character relationships anyway.  
> But while this originates as crack and stays crack, it also... became a little bit more(?) over the course of me writing it than just fun and funny. I promise it's still funny and fun, just... be prepared for an occasional dash of seriousness and angst and for the humor to get a little grim at times.  
> Also, maybe don't try to eat/drink anything while reading this, I was informed that this could be considered a safety risk. 
> 
> There will be sixteen chapters of this, all of which should be up before the end of the month. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hobbitish was the Proper way of saying everything it wasn’t proper to say aloud. Every little derisive comment, scandalous suggestion, filthy innuendo, controversial opinion, fantastical piece of gossip, and nasty quip. It was really quite mean, honestly."

Actions speak louder than words, everybody knows this.

~

Hobbitish was very similar to Westron in words and speech. In fact, another speaker of the Common Tongue might not even notice that the dialect existed unless it was pointed out to them. Which, of course, it wouldn’t be, because hobbits were even more secretive than dwarves sometimes and they weren’t much fond of Big Folk.

But Hobbitish was a rather extraordinary and unique and utterly different language even with its great similarities to Westron in speech, because Hobbitish was actually an extremely precise and almost entirely _unspoken_ language. Oh yes, there was much more to the precious manners and cultural habits of gentlehobbits than simple snobbery and prudishness – much more.

 Big Folk really had no idea the kind of things that could be communicated with the more delicate and polite facets of life. There was something beautiful about the raw emotions that could be told through a bundle of flowers, from burning passion to simple thanks for a gesture of kindness. Even the Big Folk knew that, but the hobbits of the Shire could take symbolic messages in small gestures to a level that would honestly be considered insanity if any other people knew about it.

 Because for hobbits, the message didn’t just depend on the kind of flowers. It was also about (but not limited to): the arrangement, the length of the stems, the ribbon (knot used, braiding, type, thickness, number of wrappings around), the number of flowers, the number of petals individually and in total, and so on and so forth. The list went on and on, and it didn’t just stop with flowers.

 Oh no, there was much, much more.

 A hobbit who properly knew their manners could convey the most complicated of messages across a crowded room without saying a word. All a properly-mannered gentlehobbit really needed was a teacup, saucer, and a teaspoon to do anything from arrange where and when they would next meet their lover for the continuation of a clandestine affair, to unofficially socially disown a friend or family member, or even threaten to make someone “disappear”. Or worse: to sabotage their prized tomatoes.

 No, hobbits didn’t seem like a confrontational people. They always seemed very polite and kind and accommodating, but that was only because no one knew of the vicious comments and infighting that happened during elevenses and tea time. Big Folk just didn’t understand the meaningful things that could be said with how a piece of carrot cake was iced and arrange. Some very long and happy marriages had ended because of improperly cut cake. It seemed ridiculous, but only to those rude and uncivilized individuals who did not understand the complicated and intricate language of Hobbitish’s “Proper Ways”.

 Hobbitish was the Proper way of saying everything it wasn’t proper to say aloud. Every little derisive comment, scandalous suggestion, filthy innuendo, controversial opinion, fantastical piece of gossip, and nasty quip. It was really quite mean, honestly.

~

Let’s see an example of this, shall we?

Belladonna Took’s brother Hildigrim was married to Bungo Baggins’ first cousin Rosa, and it was at Hildigrim and Rosa’s smial for brunch that Belladonna Took first worked up the courage to proposition Bungo Baggins. She did it by tilting her chair slightly towards him at an angle of twenty degrees more than was appropriate and how she ate her cake, announcing her interest in beginning a romantic courtship – possibly with a heated sexual fling on the side – that might even end in marriage.

 Belladonna Took crossed her legs and pointed her toes and flipped her hair in some _very_ scandalous ways that day. The detail of each action was crucial, and positively _filthy_ in meaning, but are unfortunately too many and too finite and too sexually deviant to properly describe.

 But hardly anything could have been more scandalous than how Bungo Baggins replied. What with how he tapped his teaspoon on the eastward rim of his teacup, wriggled his toes twice, and reached for a scone with his left hand, making sure to leave exactly two ninths of tea left in his cup when he bit into the scone.

 Bungo’s Aunt Pansy was so shocked that she fainted. Gerontius Took, Belladonna’s father, looked like he was going to throw up. Because the Baggins boy had just admitted to many years of hopeless infatuation and a desire to begin the courtship immediately, along with a deep admiration for Belladonna’s adventurous soul and (extremely inappropriately, dear hills, there had been elderly hobbits and teenagers present) the sensual curve of her ears and toes.

 Conversation continued more or less as normal in the spoken ways, if through gritted teeth, but a great many silent arguments and confrontations took place in the meanwhile. A hobbit could not, after all, properly call themselves a hobbit unless they were able to notice such small changes in body language and divide their attention enough to maintain an unspoken conversation across the room while eavesdropping on everyone else.

 Bungo’s mother Laura took to furiously telling off her son for his inappropriate allusions and insinuations by elaborately pouring herself another cup of tea.

 Belladonna’s brother Isengrim expressed his displeasure with such a class mismatch by cutting his cake with the left fork prong twice over at the upper right-hand edge, then listening off a slew of terribly coarse insults to the entire Baggins family by the crossing of his legs.

 Bungo’s brother Longo called Bungo a disgrace to their name by blowing in his puce handkerchief at the bottom right-hand center of it.

 And Belladonna’s father, Gerontius Took, the Thain of the Shire, made vague ramblings of calling up the Bounders to sort out (and make disappear) this “impertinent, lawless, perverted boy” by how he fiercely and dexterously puffed into his pipe.

 ~

 A flicker of the eyes, a wriggle of the fingers, a twitch of the eyebrows, a tilt of the head – it all mattered. From birth, hobbits were taught what it meant to wear a yellow shirt to a girl’s Coming-of-Age party and how rolling one’s eyes between certain words could cause two brothers not to speak to one another for three months minimal normally and four months if they had had their hand under their chin at the time.

 A wife or husband, a widow or widower, a child not yet of age, a fauntling…

 A cousin, a sibling, a parent, a relative, a friend, an acquaintance…

 A Family Head, a gentlehobbit, a Bounder, a Madam, a Thain, an ordinary hobbit…

 That all mattered too.

 You would not dare to write a letter to the Thain with the same style that you used to write to your barrister or to your grandmother. You would not dare to serve dinner party guests counterclockwise if there were two Family Heads at the table. And it just would not be Proper for a lower class hobbit to use the same flourish in their mannerisms and gestures as an upper class one.

 There wasn’t really much else to matter in the Shire, it seemed. Especially in Hobbiton’s high society and the halls of the Great Smials and such places.

 No, no, it did not really make sense. At least not to Big Folk. But that was how hobbits did things in the Shire. They communicated through the fullness and placement of the salt shaker; they conveyed messages by what time they arrived at an event by invitation or otherwise; and they made commentary on themselves as a person using their gardens. Hobbits had adapted it over the years to say anything they wished and hardly needed to say anything at all sometimes.

 It was complicated, but hobbits were excellent observers and quite nimble with small gestures and quick movements. They picked up the meticulous movements as quickly as they could and kept at it like all their ancestors before them. The gentlehobbits were especially keen on all the smaller details, while the hobbits outside of high society… perhaps did not pay as much attention to whether or not fingernails touched a teacup as the upper classes thought was Proper. Just… perhaps.

 By the edges of the Shire, out by Buckland and Bree, of course, it was nigh impossible to keep a Proper handle on what was Proper. Hobbits were less enforcing of the more complicated messages that required sharp eyes and constant attention, although they still followed the Proper Ways as best that they were able. If challenged, they rather delighted in telling horrible stories about how the men quaffed their ale at certain angles and chewed with their mouth open at the most insulting places, and kept their doorways in the most disrespectful repair, and unintentionally said such truly disturbing things with their walking gaits and the buttons of their clothing.

 And that wasn’t even getting started on their handshakes and hosting!

 ~

 In theory, Bilbo Baggins – of Bag End, Bagshot Row, the Hill, Hobbiton – knew that Big Folk and Outsiders knew nothing of the Proper Ways. He’d heard of the merchant caravans that passed through, year after year, and the terribly mannered dwarves and men that came with them. Vaguely. He might not have been listening, honestly.

 Bilbo’s Took uncles and Brandybuck cousins had told him many stories of the world outside the Shire, of their little trips that hadn’t taken them much farther than Bree but definitely into the deepest depths of bad manners. Oh, it was horrible, they all assured him, while Bilbo hummed disinterestedly inside.

 But Hobbiton was fairly deep into the Shire, and the Bagginses were fairly high up there in high society, and Bilbo had never really encountered any Big Folk or Outsiders. Some part of him was sort of aware that they wouldn’t really follow the Proper Ways, but he wasn’t really aware of it or just how horrifying the reality was until a wizard loomed over him on his smoking bench.

 And he wouldn’t fully realize it until the next day, partly from the sheer shock of it.

~

The technicalities of communicating using a walking stick were as complicated as any other average part of Proper Hobbitish – not quite as bad as flowers or tea time, but bad enough. Thankfully, Bilbo had learned the gestures as he had with all of Proper Hobbitish, and learned them well enough to counter being slightly out of practice.

 The Bagginses, after all, were the most properly-mannered gentlehobbits around. And Tooks, as forward and scandalous and adventurous as they could be, did not have their lofty place in the Shire for nothing.

 But…

 Bilbo was certain that…

 Well…

 Gandalf the Grey was both Big Folk and an Outsider, but from the stories about him constantly wandering through, Bilbo would have thought that the wizard would have a better grasp of hobbit culture! Because surely the grey wanderer had not actually… meant that… that… _that comment_ about Bilbo’s feet!

 Oh, there had been something about an adventure that Bilbo hadn’t paid much attention to – and definitely refused. But how could he have paid attention to any of that when Gandalf had been all but screaming a number of horrid and terribly odd comments!

 How dare the wizard imply that Bilbo’s feet were soft! Bilbo Baggins might be a gentlehobbit, but he had the hardy feet of any hobbit! And they were well-kept feet, too! His foot hair had no dried pieces of strawberry jelly in it, thank you very much! And his toenails were perfectly filed and not at all like tree bark in their texture, just to set the record straight!

 What disdain the wizard had shown when he’d refused Bilbo’s invitation to join him for a pipe. Bilbo’s hospitality was not served with bad lemon biscuits or cheap pumpkin wine! (What even _was_ pumpkin wine? Good Lady, what were the Brandybucks doing _now_?) What a terrible and out of place thing to say! Bilbo had never served bad biscuits in his life!

 And there was nothing at all wrong with Bilbo’s… skills… in the bedroom! Which certainly did not involve sandals or lamp covers in any way, much less the ways Gandalf had suggested. How in the hills would the wizard even know anything about that to comment on?

 It had been all that Bilbo could do to keep the spoken conversation going while the wizard went on leaning on his staff and shifting is weight and staring and being so rude! Oh, it was interesting to meet the magical wanderer behind hobbits going off into the Blue and sailing in ships, but the rude things that the wizard had said! So rude!

 Bilbo probably ought to have replied with equally horrible insults, as was only Proper in turn with the ways of the Shire, but Bilbo’s father, Bungo, had been of a “be better than them” philosophy that had unfortunately rubbed off on Bilbo. Bilbo did not care for involving himself in more conversations than was absolutely necessary, and so tried to employ his father’s belief – mostly in respect to Bungo’s memory than out of respect for his neighbors – and kept his comments unspoken inside his head.

 (Unless, of course, Bilbo was pushed by extenuating circumstances to his breaking point. Usually by awful relatives. Then he was perfectly happy to fight fire with fire and tell his Aunt Linda that he hoped she would choke slowly on the dry, flavorless cooking that she forced on everyone.

 Hobbitish really wasn’t a very nice language, which was probably why it was a bit taboo to discuss Proper Hobbitish aloud. Bilbo had never been fantastic at keeping to his father’s philosophy, so he also had his own philosophy of hiding from people he knew he could not be polite to, running away, and pretending that he was not home. It was easier to stick to “being better than them” if he did not see them and did not have to interact with them.)

 Bilbo invited the wizard to tea, of course, because… well, because. It was surely the Proper thing to do when meeting an old acquaintance, even if he had called Bilbo’s door paint job rushed and unevenly done! And talked about rain of ginger spice cupcakes. And also, for some odd reason, seemed incredibly interested in where to acquire two toads, chicken eggs, and a pregnant ewe for some unspecified purpose.

 Hobbits generally liked riddles. Bilbo generally liked riddles. Riddles were good fun all around – a favorite hobbit pastime. Hobbitish in itself was rather like massive riddle sometimes, except how it wasn’t. But… this… what even was this?

 Hills, Big Folk were strange.

 Hmm, was there something that Bilbo had been supposed to put down on his engagement tablet? Something to do with the wizard? Oh, it would probably come back to him later. Right now, Bilbo needed to find something to drink and at least five sugary somethings to eat, because that was just horrible.


	2. The Improper Party

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Any other hobbit probably would have fainted, dead off their feet, hours and hours ago!"

 There is a dwarf that has – using his knock, barging entrance, dusty boot prints, and eating of Bilbo’s own meal – claimed new ownership of Bag End from Bilbo according to nine of the twenty-two traditions that haven’t been commonly or widely used since the times of Bullroarer Took.

 He has also, through many of his gestures, called Bilbo’s home a rotting pile of tastelessness, become engaged to himself, insulted Bilbo’s dinnerware set by deeming it unworthy of a duckling, told Bilbo that his carpets need more salt, and propositioned a service of sexual acts between them. Seven times now in regards to the propositions. In increasingly bizarre and horrifying ways too. 

 Bilbo didn’t even know that people did that. Or why anyone would want to involved fireplace pokers in the bedroom in the first place. That just… that didn’t seem sanitary. That couldn’t possibly be sanitary and it was definitely not safe. Oh hills, what.

 Bilbo Baggins has followed the Proper Ways all his life – he has long since mastered the art of holding two or more conversations at once, and keeping spoken and unspoken conversations separate – but now they seem to be betraying him as he has scandal upon unadulterated horror shoved in his face.

 The dwarf doesn’t seem to be picking up on any of Bilbo’s unspoken objections and responses to his unspoken claim of ownership on Bag End! And he equally seems to be ignoring Bilbo’s spoken objections to the dwarf just walking in, asking where the “others” and the food are, and sitting down without being invited! Either way, Bilbo is being ignored and he finds it as bewildering as it is insulting, because being ignored… it doesn’t really get much worse than that in any kind of Hobbitish.

 Then the doorbell rings again, in such a way that Bilbo is once again caught between indignation and confusion, because his front path is not as unwelcoming as a pile of used washcloths! And who in the Shire would dare say something like that about him and his late mother?

 (Besides his Aunt Camellia.)

 (Also, to be fair, besides most of the Baggins family and a good number of the Tooks.)

 (Look, Hobbitish isn’t a nice language, Belladonna Took was a menace, and Bilbo himself isn’t exactly the most outgoing and tolerant of individuals. It’s not actually that unexpected or rare, it’s just really rude that the insult would be used as an opening zinger, because now that Bilbo’s parents have both passed away, that’s really more of a half-an-hour-into-tea sort of statement by someone he actually knows.)

 The answer, it turns out to be, is not someone of the Shire.

~

There is mud on Bilbo’s mother’s glory box and dirt trod into his carpets, essentially proclaiming Bag End filthy and worthless and in general terrible taste by the older Proper Ways that haven’t been used outside of the absolute worst feuds for decades at least. Bilbo is ready to cry because he’s never seen such blatant disrespect and insult to a hobbit and their home. His carpet patterns are not ugly and his coat hooks are not crooked! His dusting is flawless, thank you, and he’s not sure what leeches have to do with anything but he does not have an infestation in his cheese cabinet!

 Where are these dwarves coming from?

 They're eating his food and thus calling themselves his new family, and yet they're rearranging his furniture for supper in such a way that is really only appropriate for a grieving ceremony. But there’s no mourning, because these dwarves are acting more like there is to be a wedding. Bilbo has seen two couples and one triad start courting or become betrothed – wait, make that three couples. Actually, that dwarf was part of the triad, so…

 Bilbo is so confused.

 He knows nothing about dwarves, much less dwarf relationships, but he is quite sure that they are at least slightly more monogamous than this.

 It’s impossible to make any kind of sense of these dwarves! They say ridiculous things and then don’t act on them, because most of them aren’t even remotely plausible and the rest are sheer madness. Something seems to be being lost in translation, honestly, because most of their actions don’t seem to correspond to any piece or sort of coherent Hobbitish that Bilbo is familiar with, which leaves massive gaps between the random things they declare.

 Which is incredible, really, because then Bilbo at least gets some sort of break from witnessing yet another piece of pure horror. If only the dwarves would stop ignoring his every attempt at asking what the hills was going on! Spoken aloud and silently, for the hills’ sake!

 They’re all so much larger than him; their movements are stronger and rougher; their clothes and appearances don’t match the images of Proper Ways gestures that Bilbo has known for as long as he can remember. It's like meeting far northern hobbits, only a thousand times worse! Their actions are so much more… unrefined… unplanned. Dwarves and gentlehobbits are not at all cut from the same cloth, and Bilbo wishes they would stop this madness long enough for him to get a Proper look at everything and maybe manage to fit their differences to the Proper Ways that he knows. 

 But the one with the funny hat is proposing romantic acts of devotion be committed with Bilbo’s doilies to everyone in the vicinity, the young brunet is accusing Aunt Belba’s hideous vase of being haunted, the blond next to him is carefully letting him (his own brother) know that it is not the brunet’s fault, it is the blond’s own issues, and that the blond has enjoyed their time together but now marry sensibly for the honor of the family cow.

 Or maybe it’s “family river pebble”. Bilbo isn’t sure because interpreting such long and straight and complexly braided hair is very difficult. And the process of elimination by what makes less sense isn’t actually applicable here.

 Then the one with the ear trumpet is communicating that Bilbo’s window curtains should have at least half a dozen more blueberries, and the copper-bearded one next to him keeps threatening to punch out the nearest chair’s legs for no real reason. The white-bearded one is eating quite happily while also clearly of the opinion that Bilbo’s food is the worst thing he’s ever smelled. And all the others are just as rude and nonsensical, commenting that the plates look like limp lettuce or that there’s a fifty-foot-tall, people-eating rock coming from across the Brandywine any half-moon now.

 Gandalf is here too, but he’s not making any sense either and Bilbo is just so lost.

 The gentlehobbit has, thus far, been compared to both fine wine and a piece of spinach in looks and dress. He’s received thirteen job offers for everything from a portrait artist to live hunting bait. He’s been proposed to nineteen times and propositioned forty-one times. He’s been told that he’s a pen without ink, a lacy rabbit, and a drunken teapot of a host. And he’s been challenged to fifteen fights so far: seven cooking, four gardening, two conkers, one smoke-rings, and one pie-eating contest to the death.

 One of the dwarves even threatened the hobbit’s shirt buttons before helping himself to Bilbo’s best peppers, and then communicated oh-so-casually that the peppers needed more time over the fire for a better taste. Also, Bilbo really ought to find himself a nice goat and settle down already in the back garden’s dahlias, don’t you know? Despite, of course, the back garden _not having_ any dahlias!

 Bilbo is so, so confused.

 Gandalf even has the gall to grin at him like this breaching of the Proper Ways is funny! Like it’s just the most hilarious thing that the wizard has ever seen to have the youngling vocally asking what to do with his plate while simultaneously gesturing that he will crack eggs down Bilbo’s best shirt unless the hobbit fetches him fish for second breakfast.

 As for the singing and the plate-throwing… Bilbo isn’t even going to go there.

 No, really, he’s not. If he does anything but immediately refuse to remember that it happened, someone is going to have to die. So it never happened. So there.

 By the time the last member of the dwarf company rings the bell, Bilbo has stopped being horrified, flustered, and confused long enough to properly realize that these dwarves don’t actually know the Proper Ways. They can’t know! It’s just like his Took and Brandybuck cousins said! Everything they’re saying in Hobbitish is unintentional and meaningless to them!

 Which actually explains why no one really reacted to the eight different times someone declared themselves or someone else to be pregnant. Bilbo had so many questions about dwarf anatomy, and some wonderings about dwarvish gender presentation, that he is very glad no longer immediately apply now that the threat of someone immediately going into labor is false.

 So while Bilbo is very relieved that therefore none of their comments had any authenticity – especially that one about the flying horses in the pond, dear hills, that one stumped him completely – and while the hobbit fully understood that the rest of the world did things differently…

 Well.

 It is another thing altogether to actually experience it.

 Especially when a knock comes at the door, sharp and silencing, announcing a thirteenth dwarfish guest who is quite late. What the knock meant in Hobbitish, Bilbo shall not say, for it was unimportant given that it meant nothing and absolutely _paled_ in comparison to the Hobbitish that followed.

 A regal dwarf, not the eldest but with hair beginning to grey, steps into Bag End and immediately accidentally proclaims ownership by three and a half of the older Proper Ways, just like the first dwarf did. Every little bit of him and his Hobbitish is shouting unimpressed comments about what he’s seeing. And the first thing the dwarf does when he finally looks at Bilbo is insult him verbally – excuse him, Bilbo is a _gentlehobbit,_ not some common grocer (that’s an insult for friendly acquaintances at the very least) – and also unintentionally tell the hobbit via the Proper Ways that the dwarf hopes sickness befalls Bilbo’s herb garden and that he’s planning Bilbo’s most agonizing demise with a sugar spoon.

 Bilbo may possibly sort of _eep_ in fear to that. It’s not every day someone threatens to gouge out his eyeballs and eat them – maybe every other month, in the expected places, like when his tomatoes win first place at the annual fair again – and being threatened by Missus Hardbottle, who is a great-grandmother and not even three feet tall, is not at all the same thing as being threatened by a tall, dark, and intimidating dwarf warrior. They’re _very_ different experiences.

 To the dwarves, however, it probably appears as though Bilbo is irrationally terrified of everything. And all that thought does for Bilbo is make his terror and embarrassment worse. Why is this happening to him? He’s a relatively decent person; he doesn’t deserve this.

 It is painstakingly obvious that none of the dwarves are at all impressed with the hobbit, especially this dark Thorin Oakenshield fellow, but they have not a clue just how incredible it is that Bilbo hasn’t yet run screaming from Bag End. Any other hobbit probably would have fainted, dead off their feet, hours and hours ago! Bilbo has not! Although the only reason he hasn’t done just that is that he is running entirely on pure fear and survival instinct at the moment.

 Bilbo may also be still holding out hope that this is just a very realistic hallucination. His cousin Adalgrim sneaked some of those terrible mushrooms they’d found once upon a time into Bilbo’s soup again, the Baggins hobbit knew it. Any moment now, he would open his eyes and there would no longer be any more dwarves telling him that his potatoes are too spicy and his cheese knife bit them. Any moment…

 Nope. Damn. A hobbit can dream.

~

Bilbo tries to keep in mind that clearly none of the dwarves are aware of Hobbitish’s silent aspects, or the Proper Ways, and that he needs to focus only on what is being said instead of tiny gestures and specific movements. Trying to read _their_ body language is hard, especially when he keeps seeing _his_ body language that doesn’t apply. It’s… it’s difficult… and Bilbo is having terrible trouble keeping track of what’s going on around him.

 By no stretch of the imagination can Bilbo not communicate excellently with spoken or written words, but the lack of background commentary and freedom of expression using tiny gestures is throwing him off. It is said that everybody knows everybody else’s business in the Shire, and that is true, mostly because the Proper Ways encourage an openness of speech that regular speech just doesn’t have. 

 There are some things hobbits just do not speak of aloud, which is very hypocritical and nonsensical, but Proper Hobbitish lets them say almost anything they like. Some things just aren't said or asked aloud! They aren't! It would be so _rude_ and Bilbo is nothing is not a Proper gentlehobbit. The Shire is a world constant, constant chatter and communication and conversation, but… these dwarves… they are either unnervingly silent or their communication is unrecognizable to him and his Proper Ways.

 There are nuances here. Subtle nuances that Bilbo knows he’s missing and doesn’t understand and doesn’t know how to recognize. There is important business going on here, he knows that, and it seems to be very personal. There’s speak of gold and glory, yes, but underneath that… well… he doesn’t know.

 On the surface, it all sounds very exciting. That’s all Bilbo can say, since he can’t rely on any more information from the small movements and gestures and actions of these dwarves. Without anyone honestly communicating their thoughts and feelings and opinions in Hobbitish – save for Bilbo himself, who could not have ceased following the Proper Ways without serious conscious effort that was currently a bit beyond him – the hobbit finds it difficult to take this seriously. As exciting as this quest sounds, it also sounds fantastical, vague, shallow, and generally unreal to him.

 Trying desperately to ignore the connotations of being directly handed so important a document by someone’s right hand while standing, Bilbo glances over the contract he cannot really believe that he is holding. The wording is complex and he can’t really concentrate on deciphering it when Thorin Oakenshield is eating his meal and holding a utensil like _that._

 And that’s on top of the distraction of the rest of the dwarves still letting Bilbo know things like that he has a slug in his candle, his buttons are inside-out, and that one of them has come to the decision that they separate because this marriage really isn’t working and the children can move between their homes freely because friendship is important.

 Bilbo isn’t entirely sure what causes him to faint in the end: the idea of being incinerated by a dragon or because the dwarf with the silver hair proposed an orgy in Bilbo’s dining room. Then the one with the pointy hair threatened to knock Bilbo’s smial down and set the Shire on fire, before signaling that he thought that that was a grand idea. And there’s also something said aloud about a dragon?

 It doesn’t really matter whether or not Bilbo’s mind knows that all the dwarves’ Hobbitish is nonsense and they aren’t really saying that. Because they technically really are and oh my – everything is black now and hello, floor.

 ~

 Bilbo agrees to go on the quest.

 He is… he is not sure _why_ exactly, because it means that he has pretty much signed himself up for almost certain death and completely certain continuation of unintentional compliments, insults, death threats, marriage proposals, sexual and sensual favor offerings, and nonsensical comments about there not being enough cream in his bacon or that his sixth toe is looking particularly lovely today.

 But there’s something fascinating here. Something that he can’t resist. Bilbo has always loved stories of the world outside the Shire – of peoples and cultures and wonders – and the strangeness surrounding him now, the sheer oddity and potential, is intoxicating. He has always loved puzzles and language.  

 Actions speak louder than words.

 Hobbitish is so very precise, so very ordered – there can’t be a finger out of place or a teacup placed down at the wrong angle or a bite of cake taken at the wrong moment. It’s so complicated that even gentlehobbits get it terribly wrong quite often, which inspires arguments and feuds and disasters on an exhaustingly regular basis. Bilbo cannot really imagine a life without the Proper Ways, but looking at these dwarves, stamping down on being scandalized and horrified, Bilbo wonders what it must to be like not to have to be Proper all the time and to have different ideas of respectability and tradition.

 These dwarves have their own movements and expressions that mean things clearly, but they’re so raw and alien and unfamiliar to Bilbo. Hobbits are not so restricted that they cannot be spontaneous or must conceal their joy, but Hobbitish has very specific outlets for that and these dwarves have an entirely different set of rules governing the way they gesture and laugh and clap backs. All entirely oblivious to the offensive nonsense they’re saying in Hobbitish. They’re so _foreign._ So Outside _._ So _dwarvish._

 It’s so much freer. It’s so _loud._ It’s so very, very intriguing, now that Bilbo has had a moment to take a moment. Their emotional expression is rougher, apparently less restricted, and Bilbo is more envious than he’s horrified and more curious than he is envious.

 And… well… then… That song might have cinched it for him. Deep and rumbling, long and low, thick and rich with a faraway home and a lost history and a fateful hope. Adventure beckoned in that song; the exploration of a world where nothing will be the same called in that song. Bilbo could still hear it, even just in Thorin’s humming in the bedroom next door, loud enough to haunt his fitful dreams. And he listened to this language he did not know, with more fervor than the rest of his life combined, because this is exciting and some part of him quietly recognized that this is _important._

 This is so much more important that how many flowers went into a crown of daisies for it to be for a sweetheart instead of a friend. This is so much more important than whether or not there’s a sprinkling of sugar on a tart and the exact position of peas on a dinner plate. This is so much more important than how to hold a spoon to purposefully insult your brunch host versus your lunch host.

 And marriage proposals and unintentional intimate propositions aside…

 Bilbo wants in.


	3. To Take a Tool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What overwhelming and dangerous nonsense has he gotten himself into, thanks to the spur of the moment?

Bilbo spends the first few days of the quest sharply regretting the fact that he has agreed to go on the quest. The very act of traveling itself is miserable and the gentlehobbit dislikes every aspect of it – from the discomfort of being on a pony, to the discomfort of sleeping on dirt and rocks, to the terrible discomfort of having to eat whatever the bloody hills _that_ is supposed to be.

 What makes it truly horrid is that the dwarves all think he’s weak and odd and strange in his manners. They whisper and stare and laugh under their breath, not even behind his back, and they speak over and around him but never once to or even _at_ him. He feels out of place – unwelcome and unwanted – lost in this company of dwarves and already longing for the familiarity and safety of his home in the Shire. Bilbo isn’t even sure if they would help him back onto his pony if the wily creature bucks him off, like he knows she’s planning to.   

 The him from the night of the party was clearly mad, honestly. A complete nutter to ever think that there was something meaningful and important and perhaps even _destined_ about this mad quest for some lost mountain. He’s a gentlehobbit. What overwhelming and dangerous nonsense has he gotten himself into, thanks to the spur of the moment?

 Gandalf makes for relatively decent company, at least, but the wizard has other affairs and business that will leave Bilbo feeling as lonely and foolish and so much an Outsider once the wanderer is elsewhere. And “decent” is if Bilbo generously and painstakingly ignores the wizard’s accidental and horrid Hobbitish.

 After a few days, Bilbo is tired and lost, scandalized and insulted, and not so much lonely as he is just horribly alone. It is with sadness and embarrassment that Bilbo realizes that his best relationship is with the wily creature that is his pony. At least even if she is planning to off him, she isn’t treating him like he’s a bothersome and unlikeable and fussy burden to mock, so far as he’s morosely noticed.

 He would very much like to get to know this company of dwarves, he thinks. They seem like friendly and decent fellows when Bilbo gets glimpses past their atrocious manners. But looking past their horrid (although unintentional) deformation of the Proper Ways is difficult, even if he did know what he is looking for, he fails to ignore what he can’t help but see. Bilbo keeps flinching at some of the coarser and more unpleasant accidental communications and he knows the dwarves have noticed and disliked it, but he can’t help it!

 Look, when the person riding next to you effectively does the same thing as shouting aloud that they’d like to lick your ears until you are mewling and desperate with sexual frustration, it’s incredibly difficult _not_ to cringe in immediate refusal. Bilbo might have been able to keep a straight face if it had been Dwalin, because the old dwarf seems to have an unfortunate habit of accidentally making sexual propositions by the quarter-hour, but it had been _Ori,_ the young-faced quiet one.

 And what was Bilbo supposed to _do_ in response to that?

 Nothing in his whole hobbit life of Hobbitish could have prepared him for it. Not even the inappropriate and perverted comments the Brandybucks are known for. Nor the deadpan humor of the Tooks. Nor the cutting insults of the Bracegirdles.

 So Bilbo cringed and the dwarves noticed, Ori looked hurt, and many of them are pointedly not speaking to him because of that. Aloud and intentionally speaking, at least.

 But not just because of that. The dwarves and Gandalf have also noticed that Bilbo never seems to be fully listening to them. The dwarves probably think that Bilbo thinks they’re uncivilized wretches that aren’t worth paying attention to, but the hobbit meanwhile is still trying to remember to pay close attention to the not-inane spoken speech, learn dwarvish body language, and desperately ignore fiddling hands or layered clothing or meaningful numbers of paces.

  They know quite a lot of the Common Tongue between them, but… they do not speak the same language, not really. They might as well be speaking Dwarfish, Bilbo thinks, wishing he knew the proper name for their mother-tongue.

 Every comment, compliment, and question Bilbo conveys gets ignored until he remembers that he has to use _words_ to fully communicate now. And as he isn’t used to that, the gentlehobbit really isn’t fully comfortable with being so openly and vocally nosy. So when Bilbo makes the effort to speak some of his thoughts, his speech is stuttering and stumbling over his tongue because he doesn’t know what’s alright to say aloud, and feels stunted and stupid by being unable to simply speak to someone.

 Even worse, these dwarves still scare him slightly. Besides their unintentional comments and clear disdain for Bilbo and hobbit culture, they are large and armed are so much more… worldly than him. They have utterly _no_ appreciation for the importance of a handkerchief and do not care what such a thing might mean to a gentlehobbit. Their blatant mocking and making fun of Bilbo for wanting to turn around to get it, well, it made Bilbo’s face burn with both shame and anger.

 But as his ears burn and his fingers twitch with fury, he’s still got to remember that these dwarves don’t know the Proper Ways at all and that the Proper Ways probably don’t apply on a quest like this anyway. Bilbo is already losing some understanding with the ponies and larger actions that these dwarves take, unfamiliar to a gentlehobbit, which don’t really fit into anything he recognizes. Hobbits don’t ride ponies or hunt or spar or do any of these… well… _useful_ actions that don’t really have meaning in Hobbitish.

 So Bilbo just stays quiet, does his best to ignore the Company’s accidental Hobbitish, and _listens._ There isn’t much else to do but listen to other people’s conversations and try to understand the gestures and body language they use, to understand the rules and conventions of their spoken conversations, to understand an entirely different language. It is exhausting, straining himself so, but the road is not particularly interesting and he is both lonely and curious.

 Without Hobbitish, there’s just so much apparent _silence_ between the dwarves. Bilbo has to wonder if the silence means more than just silence sometimes. But he hasn’t a clue and no one will tell him, so all he can do is observe carefully and collect random facts about people who don’t give a damn about him, his way of life, or his language.

 He _could_ tell them about Proper Hobbitish, but what would be the point? It’s not as if Bilbo could teach them the entire language while they travel or that any of them would want to learn. To impose on all of them by asking them to watch their every movement just to make Bilbo slightly more comfortable? Yes, that would definitely go over _really_ well, just as well if not even better than his request to turn around for his handkerchief.

 Nowhere on the East Road is there a place for tea sets or cake plates or any of the thousands of fiddly little gestures that Hobbitish is made of. The Proper Ways of the Shire, it is very much seeming, are as out of place and utterly worthless as Bilbo is on this mad and lonely journey.

~

They stop for camp one night and nothing seems at all different from any other lonely and awkward night until screams echo in from the distance. Bilbo is almost ready to dismiss the sounds as an animal until he picks up what sounds like a pattern, just before the screams go silent. The dwarves notice his wide-eyed surprise and Bofur, the dwarf with the odd hat, deigns to inform him that these are orcs.

 Bilbo would like it to be noted that he was not actually frightened by the idea of orcs or being gruesomely eaten by them – although orcs are plenty frightening and Bilbo does not wish to be eaten – as Fíli and Kíli might think and were trying to make him. His horror had much more to do with how Kíli inadvertently, unintentionally, and most ardently just asked him in Hobbitish to have particularly adventurous relations with both him and his fish. Fish, in this case, referring to Fíli beside him.

 It had been a while since the last sexual proposition and the young brothers had been staring so intently at him, trying to frighten him, that Bilbo really could not help his eyes going wide because… that’s really quite the mental image. And an annoyingly unmanageable one, no matter how Bilbo immediately tries to dismiss the thought, pointing out that brothers would definitely be a new experience.

  _No._ This is not a train of thought that Bilbo needs to go down, ever, thanks.

 He should have brought ale or brandy on this journey because he needs one now even more than he’s been wanting one since he left Bag End. One of these dwarves ought to have _something._ Bilbo does not even care what, he’ll drink one of the healer Oin’s strange poultices, he’ll pour brandy into his damn ear to scrub his head just to forget about all this.

 Although perhaps it was for the best that Bilbo did not have the means to get himself roaring drunk, because the story that comes next is not something that ought to be forgotten. Thorin tells his nephews off for making light of monsters, before storming off, and Balin speaks up to remind them (and tell Bilbo) some of the hardships and horrors their company’s leader has seen over the years. A lost battle over a lost kingdom and a foe in the form of a great pale orc, it sounds like some sort of legend.

 It would have been a touch more striking, however, if as he stood against the scenery, Thorin had not been unintentionally daring any bakers to beat his strawberry rhubarb pie if they were hobbit enough. It’s just… it was a rather dizzying contrast to see that and listen to Balin’s tale at the same time.

 Why didn’t anybody bring any brandy? A decent bit of pipeweed? No?

 For reasons that he cannot quite explain, Bilbo is tempted to scream back at the far distant howlers who pierce the night a few more times before falling silent. Screaming isn’t much done among the higher circles of hobbit high society, but it suddenly sounds very appealing.

 ~

 Actions speak louder than words, but when you’re tied up in a sack and your available actions are to roll for freedom, hop and hope for the best, wait to get eaten by trolls, or talk… Well, Bilbo’s Aunt Lily always said that being loud was as indecorous as it was unseasonable. The gentlehobbit’s options are limited here. Very, _very_ limited.

 He is in a sack surrounded by trolls who don’t know any Hobbitish at all, much less enough for Bilbo to negotiate for freedom with a handkerchief as the Proper Ways suggest he should. Not that Bilbo _has_ a handkerchief, anyway. So what can he do besides talk?

 So Bilbo talks. He babbles, really, and the dwarves contradict him at every turn before they catch on to what he’s trying to do. Thankfully, they catch on fast once he starts making any sort of sense.

 It’s quite common in the Shire for hobbits to silently warn others off pieces of food, using threats and insinuating food poisoning so they can have the last biscuit or piece of cake to themselves. (Maybe dwarves don’t do this?) Bilbo’s done it himself, although never aloud before, worms are usually only applied to apples and other pieces of fruit, and not with dwarves.

 Trolls are far worse than dwarves when it comes to the Proper Ways, their movements are brutish and clumsy and unpleasant to witness, on top of the trolls being gruesome just to look at. Bilbo is so very relieved and delighted when Gandalf finally appears and the trolls are turned to stone, because seeing trolls essentially call each other nauseating endearments like ‘darling piglet’, as well as angrily accuse one another of serving soggy scones, that is something that Bilbo will never willingly invite into his memory or otherwise conceive of or encounter.

 Although… nothing was quite as bad as the trolls’ physical altercation and shouted insults, and also very nearly being torn apart and eaten by them. Those actions spoke a lot louder to Bilbo’s shaken mind than random bits of unintentional Hobbitish ever could – their harsh grip as they swung him about, their dizzyingly foul breath in his face, the thunderous vibrations of their clashes and shouts – it was terrifying. Bilbo may have nightmares for months about this night in which he nearly _died._

  _Those actions spoke very loudly, the monstrous intentions behind them especially, much more loudly and clearly than the Proper Ways,_ Bilbo finds himself thinking almost traitorously as he trembles.

 Just like how the dwarves’ response to Bilbo’s mistakes and quick thinking speaks very loudly in ways that Bilbo has never really experienced before. They pat him on the back or shoulder, giving quick but sincere thanks and compliments, delighted and grateful to have survived. In Hobbitish, this is highly inappropriate, as it was done in such a way that Bilbo has now been unofficially adopted as a sister, grandchild, great-aunt, mortal rival, and third-cousin-once-removed by some of the Company.

 But Bilbo, still a little surprised at himself for managing to talk his way around _trolls,_ manages to control his scandalized and cringing reactions. Too stunned by his close encounter with truly abominable and mangled Hobbitish and these new bonds made by near-death, the gentlehobbit actually manages to see the meaningful sentiment and intent in the actions

 It’s not like… hobbit _don’t_ express their love for friends and family members. Oh no, hobbits like to give spontaneous hugs and blow kisses and tussle hair and all that nonsense, but there are certain Proper Ways of doing those things. Careful thought and placement, each movement with a message, minute differences that all have different meanings and are so very easy to confuse.

 But these dwarves are free and, to Bilbo’s refined movements, very clumsy in their expressions. They don’t know the implications behind the placement of their hands and feet, nor do they care, because in their language, it is the whole – their actions, their expressions, their words, their silences – that speaks with their well-meaning.

 In Proper Hobbitish, Kíli’s friendly and jostling one-armed hug means that the dwarf has claimed Bilbo as a younger, unmarried sister.

 In Proper Hobbitish, Fíli’s pulling Kíli off him to clap Bilbo’s shoulder means that he recognizes Bilbo as a worthy mortal enemy and currently superior pie-eater.

 In Proper Hobbitish, Balin’s acknowledging nod is a common greeting between third cousins.

 In Proper Hobbitish, Óin’s slap on the back should have been done by a grandfather. Bofur’s following hand on Bilbo’s shoulder should have been by a grown adult to a beloved elderly female relation, specifically a great-aunt by the placement of the fingers.

 But for the dwarves, it means something different. Bilbo thinks it all, actually, might just mean ‘thank you’ and ‘good job’. There’s a surprised gratefulness and begrudging respect here, he thinks (he hopes), ignoring the Proper Ways for the first time in his life in favor of this new way he still doesn’t yet know. Dwarves are still strange, but Bilbo could get used to this way, to getting thanked and included. The experience sends a tingly warmth into his toes, even if Dwalin just technically sexually propositioned him again.

~

 Bilbo has a sword now. It’s a fancy dagger or letter opener in the eyes of the dwarves, but Bilbo doesn’t see much difference between one sharp metal killing thing and another sharp metal killing thing of greater size.

 None of these dwarves have seen what Aunt Mirabella can do with a butterknife. Size matters for shit when someone’s determined and pissed the hills off at her brother – poor, poor, foolish Uncle Hildibrand Took – for calling her a traitor for marrying into the Brandybucks and moving to Buckland.

 Bilbo, even as gentlehobbit, definitely has enough determination to do some damage with this tiny sword if he puts his heart where his Hobbitish is. The problem is that he hasn’t the faintest how to use it and he doesn’t _want_ to use it. He didn’t even want to _accept_ the blasted blade. Remembering with horror the implications of being given such a weapon in the older Proper Ways and trade traditions, his immediate opinion had been more along the lines of, ‘No, thank you!’

 It’s been easiest to ignore the dwarves’ gestures with their weapons, because Bilbo is more of Baggins than a Took. He’s never involved himself in military or Bounder business, and thus only has a passing familiarity with Hobbitish surrounding weapons. But suddenly being given a weapon, he remembers what that means in his culture quite well once he thinks about it.

 Actions speak louder than words.

 To give a weapon like Gandalf did – to gift any sort of tool to another person to keep and use as their own – is a promise among hobbits that you are taking that person as an apprentice or making a commitment to teach that person how to use said tool. Master gardeners give their apprentices trowels and spades as a promise; parents give writing utensils to their children and then teach them how to read and write. It’s an old tradition, but giving a tool of a trade is still understood as a promise to teach, just as accepting that tool of a trade is a promise to learn.

 Being given a weapon like this… in the way they are offering it… well…

 In the Shire, to accept a weapon in this way, under not only the Proper Ways but old traditions, is to accept that you will have to use it. Bounders give their trainees bows and blades to learn with, then better quality weapons to fight with. The new Bounders accept promising to protect the Shire by whatever means necessary, even as much as the Shire generally shies away from the means.

 Bilbo pales because he has no stomach for blood or battle.

 The gentlehobbit hems and haws when it comes to accepting the blade from Gandalf, and he’s sure that he loses whatever respect he gained from the troll business for it. The dwarves all seem less than impressed at Bilbo’s reluctance to accept a blade and, once they realize it, the fact that Bilbo is carrying no weapons at all. So Gandalf pushes, Bilbo dithers as best he can with spoken babbles, and the dwarves look on with scowls.

 Eventually, the wizard is insistent enough that Bilbo finally lets Gandalf hand him in the blade in a particularly inappropriate and most insulting way in Hobbitish. Luckily and surprisingly, Bilbo does not drop it on his toes. The blade is light enough that Bilbo will be able to swing it, and sharp enough that Bilbo’s lack of strength will not be much of a hindrance.

 The wizard walks off grumbling about the stubbornness of dwarves and the foolishness of hobbits, and Bilbo watches him go with the realization this is a fortuitous advantage for him. Gandalf clearly has about as much intention of teaching him how to use the small sword as Bilbo does of learning. The wizard doesn’t seem to be aware of the existence of such a promise.

 Bilbo tells himself as they make their way along that perhaps… perhaps the Proper Ways can be ignored this once. Just… just… just this once. It’s not as if the dwarves or wizard have any idea of what the giving of weapons might mean in his traditions. They don’t know that Bilbo just essentially promised to use this sword to kill, which goes completely against his attitude, aptitude, and entire lifestyle.

 They don’t _have_ to know, Bilbo decides secretly to himself. If they aren’t going to follow the Proper Ways and teach Bilbo how to use the blade, then the hobbit doesn’t have to follow the Proper Ways and use it. Which is possibly the most frightening thing Bilbo’s encountered on this journey: an un-hobbit-like thought like that in his head.

 Even paying attention to the spoken insults and unspoken nonsense of the dwarves is more appealing than paying mind to that last thought, so Bilbo turns away from it. He notices how Bifur just unintentionally told Bofur that his hat has the appeal of sheep vomit. He focuses on how Glóin is accidentally but clearly communicating that he finds their neighbors to be as impolite as their fence is uneven. How unrespectable!

 Actions speak louder than words, and these actions speak a little too loudly for Bilbo’s comfort.

 When did everything start _screaming_ like this?

 Oh no, wait, those are actual screams. What.


	4. Revels and Revelations in Rivendell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It seems that Rivendell – what with all these whispering elves and muttering dwarves and one fidgeting hobbit – is just filled to the brim with people having much to say about one another, however lovely this place is.

 Being chased by wargs and orcs and orcs on wargs is also very far outside of Bilbo’s areas of comfort. He would very much not at all recommend the experience. If any hobbit ever asks him whether or not to go on any sort of adventure, Bilbo is going to ask them how attached they are to the idea of having their limbs attached to them.

 Yes, indeed, that is what he’s going to say: ‘Don’t go on an adventure or you’ll get your head torn off. No, no, no way to avoid it. It’ll happen. Adventure – head torn off – inevitable.”

 Because it rather seems to Bilbo that this might actually be an eventuality, considering the trolls and wargs so far, not to mention the far off dragon waiting in a mountain. Adventures are damned _dangerous,_ it turns out. Uncle Hildifons went off on one and never returned, Bilbo didn’t think much of it, and now Bilbo is going to be the mad family member people use to warn their children.

 What a legacy that will be. The children Bilbo never planned on having and is now definitely never going to have will be so proud of him.

~

 Rivendell is lovely.

 A lovely, _lovely_ relief.

 Bilbo is a gentlehobbit, honestly, and really rather has no place on the long East Road or any quest. He has missed his bed, his blankets, and every little comfort of home. He has been keeping the majority of his grumbling and deep unhappiness quiet and in Hobbitish, both out of cultural habit and to keep the dwarves from looking down on him even further, but he doesn’t quite manage to hide his delight at _civilization again_ and the dwarves have noticed and are displeased again by it.

 Or maybe it’s that they, at least most of them, seem so utterly opposed to their hosts. Bilbo finds the Rivendell residents fascinating and enchanting, but some of the dwarves are reluctant to treat the elves with any sort of politeness or anything other than suspicion and displeasure. Bilbo wonders if they’re just determined to be a bad mood no matter what, since no one explains anything to him, but he doesn’t really care.

 It’s just so nice to be back indoors among familiar things. It’s _so_ nice to sit down in a chair at a table for a meal, with proper plates, cups, and cutlery. (Oh, Bilbo could write _poetry_ about how much he’s missed good food and cutlery – _proper_ cutlery and fresh vegetables are a balm to his shaken heart.) It’s just so, _so_ nice to have furniture and structure about again – a bed with blankets, doors and windows, and comfortable places to sit and rest.

 ( _Pillows,_ he’s going to write a _song_ about them. He never really quite understood how much he should love pillows until there weren’t any pillows to adore. There is now no form of measurement large enough to comprehend Bilbo’s renewed appreciation of pillows.)

 And Rivendell really is _lovely._

 Bilbo has never seen a more beautiful or peaceful place in all his life. It surely must have taken centuries of planning and work to carve these twisting, seamless structures between the Valley trees and waterfalls. The entire place feels so smooth and polished, as if time has rubbed any roughness or unpleasantness away. Time has rubbed this hidden world down to beautiful marble bones, shaped every curve and swirl lovingly in this place where the greenest glades grow and clearest rivers run.

 The only thing that doesn’t make this place perfect to Bilbo’s mind is that the elves clearly don’t know the Proper Ways either. Their movements are much more elegant than the Company’s, they are much more graceful and serene, and they are refined as though time has too smoothed them down to polished bones, but they’re still different. Different to the dwarves, but not at all right either.

 Elvish movements are too long, too tall, and too smooth. They don’t have the same jolts, twists, and needed sharpness in their graceful and generally seamless actions. And even when they are fun-loving, wild, and frolicsome, there is something unnervingly slow about them. Even when jovial in manner, loud in silly song, there is something untouchable and… long… about them. It is difficult to describe, but the point is that elves don’t move at all the same way that hobbits do and thus do not at all follow the Proper Hobbitish patterns that they do not know.

 Bilbo really should stop expecting dwarves and elves to know their Proper Hobbitish. The men don’t know it either according to Bree and Buckland hobbits. It’s called _Hobbitish_ for a reason and he’s being such an idiotic little fool to expect it of everyone he meets in this wide, wild world.

 Unfortunately, as much as he is trying to learn these new languages and ignore his own, Bilbo cannot so easily forget the only way he has ever known. The fact that neither the elves nor the dwarves know what they’re unintentionally communicating does not stop the hobbit from listening.

 In fact, there isn’t much else for Bilbo to listen to when the groups feast together. He has trouble keeping track of all the nuances of their foreign ways and he doesn’t know where to begin. It dizzies him. The dwarves mostly keep to themselves, not bothering to include the awkward and moody hobbit, and the elves pay little conversation to anyone who is not an elf or Gandalf. Thorin’s stilted responses to Lord Elrond’s kind attempts at conversation are the closest the parties get to interacting with one another, and Bilbo definitely has no place there.

 So Bilbo… may or may not… entertain himself by imagining that everything at their welcoming feast being unintentionally said in Hobbitish is actually intentional. And it is _hilarious._

 Lord Elrond, who seems courteous and wise, and Gandalf’s unintentional conversations are by far the best. Gandalf thinks their daughter’s suitor is a young man with a bright future, but Lord Elrond disagrees and roughly replies with what Bilbo takes a prediction of said future: falling off a cliff.

 Gandalf bites into the salad and comments that he finds this cake dusty and the decorations moist.

 Lord Elrond has apparently been holding back secret dreams of leaving the family farm to travel the world, specifically to the beach. Once there, he will do nothing but lounge on the sand and smoke a pipe, completely in the nude.

 Hobbitish is a very complex and peculiarly specific language. Bilbo is not snickering. No, not even a little bit. Not at all~. (Okay, maybe a little.)

 The dwarves are not any better. Their accidental Proper Hobbitish is as ridiculous as ever and even the gaps in their ‘speech’ from their unfamiliar style of movement just make it worse. Bombur is complimenting the meal’s solvency in the pond, while Dori is challenging Kíli to make a better roast cotton dinner than the salad they’re eating. Óin is racking up insults on everything from the music to one particular floor tile right there – that one specifically, yes, that one – fuck that one, honestly. And Balin’s just told Thorin that his shirt makes him look like a pig sow in every way.

 Bilbo is not giggling. Actually, yes, he is giggling. He’s giggling a lot and can’t actually stop.

 He… may or may not… be a little bit drunk right now. Leaning more towards the ‘may’, honestly, because staying upright is becoming increasingly difficult. Elf wine is fruity and seems light, then sneaks up behind you with a surprising amount of strength. Just like elves, sort of, only tastier.

 Bilbo is very definitely drunk right now and enjoying it a lot, thank you for asking.

 The hobbit watches, listens, and quietly giggles into his meal – unseemly of him, but he’s indisposed and he doesn’t care – and it _doesn’t matter_ because none of these unfortunately improper individuals are paying him the slightest bit of attention. They don’t know what the Proper Ways _are._ Noooo, they’re all too focused on Bofur singing and dancing on the furniture, or swords and maps and all that fascinating quest stuff.

 Bilbo doesn’t even bother asking if his little blade has a name, as there’s no inscription for Lord Elrond ( _he who dreams of being a nude beach layabout,_ Bilbo thinks, _oh hills, don’t start giggling again_ ) to read. And Bilbo doesn’t really feel like being mocked by any of dwarves again.

 It feels like sweet justice to turn the tides in his favor, just thinking about being mocked. Bilbo has been complaining a bit and lightly insulting others as usual in Hobbitish before, mostly trying to keep from saying much but still unable to break habit, but now he realizes that _none of the dwarves know anything about Hobbitish._ Bilbo can quite literally say anything he pleases directly to their faces and none of them will be at all the wiser.

 Oh, how this thought pleases him. He’s going to have fun with this.

~

As far as Bilbo is concerned, Rivendell is the best part of the quest so far. And not just because of the truly excellent wine that the elves seem to serve _all the time._ (Who knows? Maybe being an elf in a gorgeous elvish city gets boring, because the residents of Rivendell seem to drink like they breathe. They certainly don’t let their non-sobriety keep them from composing songs and improvising poetry and generally enjoying themselves.)

 The days the Company spends in this valley are wonderful for him. They’re waiting for something, some phase of the moon hobbit thinks he overheard Balin or Thorin say, because he isn’t sure whether they meant it truly or not. The dwarves as a whole don’t seem to be enjoying themselves much, but Bilbo doesn’t care, because it’s not as if the capricious dwarves care about him or what he’s doing.

 Bilbo spends his days doing whatever he wishes, which is mainly exploring Rivendell. Their kept gardens are practically overflowing with seemingly timeless growth – gorgeously constructed and artfully grown. The surrounding forests are wild and beautiful, mysterious and mystical, so green and vivid that it almost hurts to look at them, even in comparison to the Shire’s rolling hills. The elves warn Bilbo to stay away from some of these enchanting places, certain bogs and glades, lest he not come out.

 The elves are very friendly and very helpful, Bilbo thinks he likes them a lot. Even not knowing the Proper Ways, they’re all still many times politer than the dwarves. (Not in Proper Hobbitish, of course, they’re just as hilariously terrible there.) They can be quite silly and thoughtless sometimes (which might be the wine, bloody hills, do elves like to drink), though, as if they haven’t a care in the world and life is just fun, games, and trying to stay entertained. The idea of mortality and the passage of time is apparently laughable to one or two of them, and some of them seem to peer down at Bilbo like he’s a pet or other particularly amusing creature, which is… annoying.

 But they’re all very… kind, he’d say, if a bit vain and arrogant. Bilbo can overlook being looked down on, with kindness or arrogance, though, when one of them guides him to Rivendell’s library. Seeing this library, the hobbit feels he could forgive any ignorant superiority or unintentional nonsense Hobbitish for this library. It’s so very beautiful that Bilbo thinks he may cry. He might be crying now for all he knows.

 Just… look… _books._ Look at them. There are _so many_ and they’re all so _nice._ Such _nice books._

 The kindly elf gliding about the library seems to watch the hobbit’s literary breakdown with understanding, as they then direct Bilbo towards their Westron books and even some ones for easy Sindarin. Bilbo is so overwhelmed that his enormous gratefulness must settle for as sincere a stuttering spoken thanks as he can manage and directing endless, embarrassingly worshipful compliments towards the elf in Hobbitish.

 So Bilbo wanders around Rivendell, taking walks to enjoy its beauty, sitting and appreciating various views and entertainment, mustering up the courage to practice his spoken conversation with the occasional bemused elf, and doing as much reading as he can manage. Sometimes (more often than not, honestly) with a wine glass in hand (it’s _good wine_ and as an adult he’ll do as he likes, damn it) and also possibly doing the Hobbitish equivalent of making horrifically rude gestures at various members of the Company whenever he encounters them.

 It’s all _very_ lovely.

 He probably shouldn’t be purposefully avoiding the Company, but they’re really being awful guests at the moment. Truly awful. What have they got against elves? Bilbo doesn’t want to be around them to be insulted for the fact that he likes their hosts and elvish company, be used a target for the dwarves’ mutters of disdain and disrespect, or to hear the snatches of horrible things being said. In Westron or the harsh, loud, incomprehensible tones of the dwarves’ own tongue. Even if Bilbo doesn’t know what’s being said, whatever the language, he doesn’t want to hear that spoken tone.

 There are just some things that shouldn’t be said aloud! How can they live that way? It’s so _rude!_ Now that Bilbo has a better comparison for Outsiders who don’t know the Proper Ways, he’s much less willing to make excuses for the pitiful and deplorable ways of his companions. The elves are strange and ignorant and maybe their smiles are actually false (Bilbo is a _gentlehobbit_ and he is very used to false smiles), but at least they’re not so… so… _loud…_ about their constant unhappiness and meanness if they have any! Bilbo made allowances before for dwarvish ignorance and suggestions of kindness underneath, but now he has to wonder if they’re actually just total arseholes!

 Thorin especially is a pompous arse that Bilbo takes great delight in sending secret insult upon secret insult towards in Hobbitish, in return for every little bit of disdain the dwarf has cast towards him and the Proper Ways. Him and all the older dwarves, when they bother to acknowledge Bilbo’s existence at all and scowl at Bilbo delighting in civilized improper society.

 ‘Rude, rock-farming, angry cabbage’ is Bilbo’s fallback insult of choice whenever his imagination falls behind. But he also has a special place in his heart for ‘tasteless, soup-burning blight on general life-enjoyment, but specifically suppertime’.

 Bilbo manages to rack up quite an impressible list that would probably get him thrown out of Hobbiton if not for the fact that _every_ hobbit says equally horrible, scandalous, and vicious things about one another all the time. _Silently,_ like _polite_ and _well-mannered_ people. It’s the Shire’s sensible and respectable way of doing things.

 That ‘being better than them’ stuff his father insisted on, well… Bilbo believes that that is definitely very important – very important in fostering good faith, yes, very important – but Bilbo is tired of biting down his frustration and trying to follow the dwarvish ways of doing things. None of them have a clue what the hobbit is communicating anyway, and it is very much a lot of fun to repay them for their awful treatment of him thus far, so the annoying little itch Bilbo feels in the back of his angry, confused mind sometimes really isn’t warranted.

 (He’d like it to stop now, please. Maybe more wine will help? Yes, more wine will definitely help. These elves are all lovely, lovely people, aren’t they? Much less scowling and loudly inappropriate. Very nice, the lot of them. Lovely people, lovely place, and lovely wine! It’s aaaall wonderful.

 …Bilbo may very well be slightly drunk again. But it’s still aaaall wonderful.)

 Anyway, his comments and insults are likely nowhere near half as insulting as what the elves probably have to say about their guests. Bilbo hasn’t actually heard them say anything, but he catches glimpses of them whispering to one another sometimes, and looking at the dwarves with what Bilbo thinks is slyness and coolness. He can’t understand them, but if he had to guess what they were saying…

 It seems that Rivendell – what with all these whispering elves and muttering dwarves and one fidgeting hobbit – is just _filled_ to the brim with people having much to say about one another, however lovely this place is. It reminds Bilbo of home a little, actually, which is nice.

~

 As far as Bilbo’s concerned, leaving Rivendell is the worst part of the quest so far, with nearly being eaten by trolls and nearly being eaten by wargs as a close second and third. They’re leaving behind comfortable beds and wonderful books and lovely, lovely wine to go be miserable travelers to some distant mountain. It is not, in Bilbo’s hungover mind, a worthwhile switch.

 But he signed a bloody contract and he is a hobbit of his word, so he has to go along with sneaking out in the middle of the night with the Company. No one tells him _why_ they’re doing this, of course. He figures that either the older dwarves are paranoid bastards or one of the younger dwarves stole shit, so now the Company has to go _now._

 Only people who’ve stolen something try to leave unnoticed out the back door. Bilbo has enough sticky-fingered relatives with deep pockets, or acquaintances with terrible memories for returning whatever they borrow, to know _that._

 So Bilbo, who had maybe a few too many glasses of wine before bed (again), is privately betting on the latter and lets the dwarves know it in Hobbitish. Only adding in one of two choice insults for being dragged out of bed at a ridiculous hour. Okay, maybe a lot of a _lot_ of insults.

 But, on the ‘being better than them’ side of things, Bilbo is holding back a bit. ‘Toad-sired, spat-out crumb of a rotting onion pastry’ is only a mild insult in the Shire. No, it actually is. It’s very specifically terrible, but still considered quite mild, which made it Uncle Isengar’s favorite of the traditional Proper Hobbitish insults of the Tooks. Bilbo is starting to see the appeal because it really does suit these _complete buggers_ of dwarves.

 They didn’t even give him time to grab a bottle of wine to go!

~

 Actions speak louder than words and nothing speaks quite so loudly as giant _bloody_ boulders being tossed about by enormous _bloody_ giants, who don’t have the decency to settle their shit like _civilized_ or _Proper_ folk. Why can’t they just silently scream insults at one another like everybody else does? Well, like hobbits do, which is undeniably the best way of doing things.

 But enough about the giants, Bilbo is unhappy and angry and rather miserable at the moment.

 Bilbo is unhappy because climbing a mountain in the middle of a thunderstorm is not his cup of tea in any way, shape, or form. He’s soaking wet, thoroughly so, and it’s _awful._ The wet fabric slings and sends shivers down his spine and chatters up to his teeth, until he misses the comforts and beauty of Rivendell so much that he doesn’t even have the Hobbitish for it.

 He hasn’t had a decent conversation with anyone since leaving. The dwarves are as closed off and generally unwelcoming as they’ve ever been, if not more so, and Gandalf is no help. Bilbo is lonely and he doesn’t even have books, wine, or warmth to make up for the shit company he’s traveling with.

 Bilbo is angry because thunder giants tossing about boulders is idiotic and unnecessary and he nearly _died_ because of it. (It’s easier to be furious about it rather than terrified right now.) The hobbit tumbled a bit off a cliff and had to be hauled up by Thorin, which just gives the dwarves another reason to think him useless and Thorin took full advantage by basically saying that Bilbo should have never left the Shire and implied the hobbit should go home.

 No one has _ever_ said something so horrible to Bilbo _aloud_ before! Thorin is such an arse! Bilbo would have gone home ages ago if he hadn’t signed the contract and it really does seem that Thorin is just waiting for him to break his word. Well, excuse him, but Bilbo isn’t the one who handed himself the contract in the first place! If they wanted someone who actually knew what they were doing or had any experience, they should have looked elsewhere like Bilbo told them to in the beginning before he let himself get tricked into this nonsense! By himself, more than anyone else, too!

 And that’s why Bilbo is miserable, because he’s sitting soaking wet in a foul-smelling cave while a thunder battle rages outside and the dwarves whisper about him inside. Even if he wanted to leave, now is hardly the best time. He can’t leave, really.

 But he’s just so tired of Thorin and the Company making him feel useless and petty and small-minded and just _small._ Bilbo wants to go back to his armchair and pipe and books and kitchen, with nice things and proper comforts. He wants to be among people who give half a damn about his existence and opinion and culture, and who actually know how to properly _communicate_ with him so he doesn’t feel so lonely and incapable and stupid. He’s not useless, but damned if he can prove that, so maybe he _is_ useless, and thoughts like these are just making him more miserable.

 He can’t even find it in himself to find the dwarves’ unintentional Hobbitish funny anymore. Even though Bifur just proposed he and Nori be handfasted during the annual goose sledding competition before the first snow of the season. It’s not really actually that funny, now that Bilbo comes to think of it. The lack of understanding is just making him sad.

  _Why is he even here?_

 Actions speak louder than words, but so far Bilbo’s words have meant nothing and his actions have meant less than nothing. Hobbitish is likely not a word that will have ever encountered these dwarves. All the fiddly little teatime gestures and tiny movements that seemed so very important not so very long ago are actions that mean nothing to them besides more strangeness surrounding their burglar.

 Actions speak and words sort of speak and _no one listens._

 As soon as the rain and the giants are gone – in the morning, most likely – Bilbo is going home. He’s a hobbit and he was never really cut out for this sort of thing. He’d be breaking his word but it’s clear his words don’t mean anything to the Company. None of them. They likely wouldn’t even care to notice his absence if he did just leave now. It would serve Thorin right, contract be tossed.

 Wait, is… is… Bilbo’s sword… _glowing?_ He doesn’t remember the wine having hallucinatory effects so long afterwards. What was _in_ those last glasses (okay, bottle, he drank an entire bottle that evening before he got dragged out of bed, shush) he had before they left Rivendell?

 Oh… wait.


	5. Of Creatures and Rings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo slides right on back into Hobbitish and the Proper Ways like he hasn’t even left the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for mentions/threats of mild gore.

 The cave wall opens, of course it does, and suddenly there are goblins, of course there are, who of course waste no time in capturing them and dragging them down into Goblintown deep inside the mountain. Because that’s just what they get for leaving Rivendell and its nice books and comfortable beds.

 Bilbo is going to cite this experience later when he writes a long dissertation on exactly why no one should go on adventures and leave their nice books and comfortable beds behind. He’ll add this incident to the list he’s going to make.

 If he lives, of course.

 They meet, greet, and escape from the Goblin King, who was really just hideous in every way to the point where Bilbo’s not sure there are insults in _Hobbitish_ that can properly convey how disgusting the brute or his unwashed chin flab was. After that, Bilbo gets separated from the others, because of course he does. The others hadn’t even trusted Bilbo’s ability to run, of course not, so Dori had picked him up and _carried_ him and then _dropped him_ because of course he did.

 Ooh, Bilbo is going to have so many silent words with that dwarf – not aloud, goodness, no, that would be so unrespectable and rude and Dori could crush him like a bug. Picking him up was bad enough! In the Shire, that’s part of a spring marriage tradition and fertility ritual, so under different circumstances, Bilbo would have blushed himself red. But dropping him! _Dropping_ him was unacceptable! Painful and awful and also a symbol of very bad fortune for the future couple’s chances of having children!

 Dropped and shoved about in the chase through the dark tunnels of Goblintown, Bilbo was knocked into tumbling down a slope in the darkness, getting farther and farther from the Company with every painful _umph_ and _oof_ as he rolls. Bilbo’s body, specifically but definitely not limited to his behind, is going to be black and blue later, and not even for any fun reasons. Thank you ever so kindly!

 On the positive side of things, Bilbo is no longer being chased by angry goblins who want to eat him. He isn’t in any immediate danger at all, it seems, and he’s still got his sharp metal killing thing that Gandalf gave him besides. The small sword is also very conveniently still glowing faintly blue, which keeps Bilbo from being totally blind while his eyes adjust to the darkness of the lower caves.

 On the negative side of things, Bilbo is lost in the depths of a goblin-overrun mountain-maze with not a bloody clue how to get out – or even back to the goblins, should he like to chance getting eaten. He has a sword that he doesn’t know how to use, so its only use is as a sharp, metal _lantern._ He’s at the bottom of a bleak, black pit with tunnels that lead to hills know where, and unless he actually braves said tunnels, he _will_ die, either of starvation or by goblins if they find him.

 So Bilbo braves the dark tunnels that seem to stretch on into the hungry hollow of the mountain, mentally cussing and cursing dwarves, wizards, goblins, quests, and everything that comes to mind along the way of darkness and rocks and little else.

 He could be going in circles for all he really knows! There’s _nothing_ down here!

  _(…What’s this?)_

 He’s going to give the Company the dressing down of lifetime when he finds them later, with _so_ many deserved insults and curses. In Hobbitish, of course. Out loud and to their faces? _Hah._ He might be stuck in the wilds but he’s not uncivilized! Besides, Thorin would probably toss him _off_ a bloody cliff, the arse.

  _(Oh.)_

 May Thorin bloody Oakenshield always have shoes that pinch slightly, sneezing fits during the springtime, a bladder that can’t last through a supper course, and only get burned corners of casseroles during meals! Mean, Bilbo knows, but an arsehole is an arsehole is an arsehole, and Thorin bloody, paranoid, stubborn, rude, grocer-hating Oakenshield is an arsehole! So there!

  _(A ring.)_

 May Gandalf the washed-out Grey always have comb-breaking tangles in his beard, splinters from his walking stick, and tea of an uncomfortably slightly odd flavor! And may his clothes accidentally get dyed in the wash so that the painfully unfashionable wizard will have some _bloody color_ in his wardrobe- or maybe just may his clothes get washed, because Bilbo’s seen the wanderer wear one robe ever in all his memories and that _cannot_ possibly be hygienic. If Gandalf really only has one robe then magic had better be involved somewhere, because _ugh._

  _(Hmm. Shiny little thing, there.)_

 May Bilbo never be invited on another quest, ever. May anyone who even thinks of inviting Bilbo off on some mad unexpected journey find that they’ve forgotten their traveling pack at home and may they take all the wrong turns on the way to his house, like he wishes some of his relatives would. If the first two don’t work, may they at least be rained on all the way, have tasteless rations, and fall into a muddy ditch four times _minimum_ on the way.

  _(Wonder who it belongs to?)_

 May these awful goblins – filthy little blighters, sickly large scum – always have aching bellies no matter what, from either starvation or pains. Which besides ignoring someone, may actually be the worst insult the Shire has to offer, hoping that someone will have only bad scraps or nothing to chew on forever.

  _(No one at all.)_

 Oh, what an ugly way of thinking. His father would be so disappointed. But Bilbo Baggins just _does not care_ at the moment, which is perhaps the worst part of all these thoughts and unheard insults.

  _(Just put it in your pocket for now._

_Just for now._

_Just to keep it safe.)_

 It’s these awful, awful caves. They go on forever into the dark, with the rough rocky surfaces and crushing smallness and silence. All this and the deep mountain air – stale and thin, the gentlehobbit can taste its awfulness – is doing something nasty to Bilbo’s head. He thinks he might actually hate caves, the bloody things.

  _(It’s not very important, after all, such a little, little thing.)_

 The tunnel finally opens up into a massive cavern with a small lake. Bilbo wants to sigh in relief at the sight, but the wide, spacious, still-dark underground could have too many _things_ in its shadows. The open space only means that they could be big things. Who knows what could be lurking under the smooth, black liquid? Things with slime, definitely. Things with giant teeth, probably.

  _(Good.)_

 Or things with sallow white skin that has probably never seen the sun. Things with long, thin limbs that are little more than skin on bones, knobby joints, and a body that curls from thin, terrible, claw-like fingers to an absolutely twisted spine. Things with wide – too wide, _too wide_ – eyes that are reflective like glass and hungry like a _famine._

 No, not _things._

 Thing.

 “...w **h** at _iss_ **h** e, _m_ y _pre **ciou**_ ss?”

~

 Bilbo is terrified. He’s spent quite a lot of this quest fairly terrified, but he’s never felt terror quite like this. This is a horror that settles itself into his mind like it owns the place and has no plans to ever, _ever_ leave. This is a terror that readily destroys heartbeats and laughingly toys with the reminder of mortality. This is a fear that will languidly crawl out again on quiet nights to infect all his dreams.

 The gentlehobbit had been terrified by the trolls. How could he not be? Even lovely Rivendell had been haunted by their earth-shaking stomps and bone-breaking grips. But that terror was tempered by being surrounded by people in the exact same situation and the fact that Gandalf had still been out there somewhere. And the trolls, as big and as mean as they were, had clearly been _stupid._

 The gentlehobbit had been terrified by the wargs, as well, but again he’d been surrounded by the Company. The dwarves had all been armed and not in sacks, the wargs were off in the distance, and they’d been led by Gandalf while Gandalf’s mad wizard friend distracted their pursuers.

 The thunder giants were definitely terrifying. If Bilbo thinks about it too long, his heart thuds with the memory of weak fingers scraping over slick rock and the whole world quaking with each thrown stone. But their encounter with them hadn’t lasted very long and again the Company and Gandalf had been there to pull him from falling to his death.

 The goblins were terrifying, all grabbing hands and hissing hordes, but Bilbo had been in good company yet again. This encounter had been even shorter in length and with much more hope than they’d had if they’d wanted to do battle against the giants.

 Now? Now there is no Company and there is no Gandalf. There is no chance of being able to escape or run away, not with this endless underground maze made of tunnels that all look _exactly_ the same to him. There is nothing to distract this thing, no one else for it to go after, because there is only Bilbo… Him and this horrible _thing_ that is looking at him with a curious, hungry, and _considering_ manner.

 Nothing that can look at another thing with such sharp observation and a _considering_ expression is stupid. Cruelty and malice can coexist very well with cleverness, they are not exclusively independent, not when cruelty and malice often thrive when wickedness and evil are clever. Bilbo can tell immediately that this thing is very clever indeed, although he does not immediately know why he knows this because he’s sort of silently screaming in terror at the moment.

 The thing is creeping _closer,_ moving with languid surety, with clenching and un-clenching fingers, curled lips, a tilting head, and eyes fixed on Bilbo in such a considering way that… no…. No, no, no, no, it can’t _possibly_ be… there’s no way. That’s – very, _very_ old and slightly twisted enough to be confusing, almost like it’s broken somehow, but Bilbo’s sharp eyes catch it anyway – _Hobbitish?_

 Apparently the first thing this creature is going to do is smash in Bilbo’s head, then the next thing it will do is _bite_ into Bilbo’s nosy neck and rip out the hobbit’s throat because that’s the _bessst_ part, oh yes, delicious and fresh and _dripping_ with –

 Bilbo swings his small blade in front of the encroaching creature like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. It may very well be, as the thing stops instantly and eyes the glowing sword with surprised fear, like it’s just now seeing it.

 The thing sneers at the blade with _hobbity_ distaste and a soft hiss [ _brittle, hate it, rotten, awful, filthy_ ], its fingers scrabbling and stretching over the waterside rocks [ _impatient, unhappy, restless, want it now, bored, hungry, the meal isn’t being served on time, bad hosting, want now nownownow_ ].

 Then its shoulders shift [ _settling in, tired with this, settling for less, this is below you, you are below me and i am humoring you_ ] and its eyelids lower just so [ _watching you, observing you, perform well because i see you, i’m seeing you every bit of you_ ]. Its jaw moves [ _hungry guest, bad host, hate this, hate this, hungry, let me eat_ ] and it glares at Bilbo – fingers twitching, weight shifting, arms bent – like this is little more than a temporary annoyance [ _disdain, hate you, going to make you hurt, rip into you, tear you apart, teach you pain_ ].

 Unthinkingly, Bilbo grips his sword a little tighter, hands shifting and fingers moving. He tilts his head and straightens his spine, shoulders back slightly, right foot angled more outward and whole left leg farther back – refuting and refusing everything this thing has just said. He doesn’t mean to, but it’s instinct, and no gentlehobbit with any sort of pride would let that sort of thing stand uncontested.

 Bilbo slides right on back into Hobbitish and the Proper Ways like he hasn’t even left the Shire. Except he _has._ He’s at the bottom of a mountain pit speaking _Properly_ to a cavern-dwelling, carnivorous creature that wants to _eat_ him.

 It just… it just _shouldn’t **be.**_

 And yet… the creature’s eyes light up in surprise. Then it shifts its body again and smiles gleefully at Bilbo as it silently speaks back [ _curious, welcoming a not-friend, introduce yourself, food’s on the table, helloooo, meal time, come my lover let us eat, looks **delicious**_ ].

 Shit.

~

 The creature’s name is Gollum and Gollum has no intention of revealing where it learned Hobbitish. For a moment, it speaks so nonsensically to itself, in Hobbitish _and_ aloud that Bilbo has to wonder if _it_ even knows where it learned its slightly twisted, broken, terribly gruesome Hobbitish. No, Gollum is much more fascinated with Bilbo than explaining itself – what and who the hobbit is and what Bilbo will taste like, that sort of thing.

 They’re at… a bit of an impasse, Bilbo and Gollum. Gollum wants to eat Bilbo, while Bilbo is very much against being eaten and just wants to get away from here right now, preferably yesterday. Bilbo also has a very sharp sword that is preventing Gollum from getting its way. It would almost be like just another day in the Shire, with two hobbits trading barbs at the market, arguing over a bauble, if not for Gollum’s broken Hobbitish and how it’s Bilbo’s _life_ they’re politely, _Properly_ bargaining for.

 Somehow this all culminates into a game of riddles, proposed by Gollum, which is yet another oddly hobbity thing to do and that just terrifies Bilbo even further. The rules of such a game are simple and the rules of this specific game are even simpler. If Bilbo wins, then Gollum shows the hobbit out of the mountain, while if Gollum wins, then it gets to eat Bilbo – and neither one of them is actually going to accept the terms of their loss and they both know it. Simple.

 As Bilbo guessed earlier, Gollum is clearly as frighteningly clever as it is totally mad. They are more or less evenly matched in their game of riddles, despite the cavern creature speaking to itself and no one at times, and obviously starved of interactions presumably by eating trespassers to keep from actually starving. But mad or not, Gollum knows its riddles.

 The creature also seems to know exactly the sort of thing to do to fluster and distract Bilbo. It takes great pleasure in crooning to itself aloud and in Hobbitish during Bilbo’s times to guess. Gollum does its best to unnerve Bilbo into a wrong guess, but then again, perhaps it’s just insane and cruel enough to simply enjoy talking about how it’s going to savor Bilbo’s eyeballs and bite the hobbit’s fingers off one by one.

 And those are the _least_ terrifying and horrifying things Gollum says it wants to do to him.

 It really ruins Bilbo’s concentration, quite a lot, but the gentlehobbit manages to pull through anyway. Even with the last two riddles that he hadn’t really gotten but managed to guess correctly anyway, all thanks to a fish for the first, then being frightened enough to screw up a demand for more time aloud _and_ in Hobbitish while trying to guess the second.

 If he lives through this, he swears that he will be a far better, more understanding, and more patient person than he has ever bothered to be before. He’ll be so much kinder and compassionate, he swears, even to people like his Aunt Camellia who definitely doesn’t deserve it and ought to have been whapped over the head with an umbrella more as a young hobbit miss.

  _(Oh dear, dear, dear…)_

 Gollum is severely displeased by Bilbo’s scraping success and its comments are only getting nastier. The creature’s mutters are becoming more hateful and its Hobbitish has become increasingly horrific and gruesome and rabidly broken, almost enough to make Bilbo’s hands tremble. This is going to culminate into something much worse than a riddling game.

  _(Why don’t you reach a hand into your pocket? To keep it still?)_

 Bilbo’s sword is the only thing keeping the hungry, impatient, filth-spewing creature at bay while Bilbo hurries to come up with a new riddle. Oh, how he hates this. He’s dreadfully frightened, heart deafening him and blood running in freezing pins and needles, and Gollum’s threats have scrambled all his wits and pride and courage to bits and pieces.

 The Proper Way’s constant threats have never been this… this… _real_ before.

  _(It’ll soothe you so, so much.)_

 Bilbo wants to pinch or slap himself, anything to get his mind going properly again, but he doesn’t want to alert Gollum to how nervous and unnerved he is. The creature will catch any little action of Bilbo’s and doesn’t need to see any of the gentlehobbit’s private thoughts, knowing Hobbitish as it does. So Bilbo tries to stuff and stifle his movements, even if he cannot think of a single riddle at the moment and it’s so very hard to contain as the twitching he’d like to do. Then…

  _(Good.)_

 “What… what have I got… in my pocket?”

~

 Gollum does not like Bilbo’s accidental riddle. Gollum does not like this question that he cannot guess at all. Which is probably why the game ends with Gollum sneaking off across the black lake in a tiny boat, although this does not explain why the horrible, mad creature comes hurrying back _screaming_ at the top of its lungs about the _precious_ that Bilbo has apparently stolen.

 Until Bilbo slips the ring on and discovers that the small golden thing makes him invisible, then it seems quite obvious why such a thing is _precious_ to the twisted, wicked cavern-creeper. What a useful, delightful little thing! What a gift! What an absolute mystery…

  _(Not important, not at all. Just a bit curious.)_

 …that Bilbo doesn’t know if he’s entirely comfortable with. Because the rushing, colorless world of the ring may hide the hobbit, but it also makes him feel more vulnerable than he’s ever felt in his life. It’s like walking into another world. There are shapes, _things,_ shifting and twisting and moving and moaning at the edges of his rushing vision. That can’t be good. What _are_ those things?

  _(Focus. Not on the ring. Pay attention to other things. Worry later.)_

 But there’s no time for that because Gollum is running for the exit and Bilbo is following because he doesn’t want to die down here, damn it. He can worry about odd rings later when he’s far away from caves, goblins, and creatures named Gollum. He’ll worry about it later.

  _(Good.)_

~

“ **B** _AG_ G **INS** SS! _TH **IEF**!_ **C _UR_** SE IT AND _C **RU**_ **SH** IT! WE **HA _TES_** IT! WE **HAT _ESSS_** _IT **FOREEEVER!”** _

~

 Bilbo barely escapes the goblin caves with his life, but he escapes mostly well nevertheless. He may be a bit bruised in and bashed up, and he might also be missing a good many of his brass buttons, but he’s alive, he’s got all his fingers and limbs, his sword, and now a magic ring. Bilbo would have honestly just been happy with the first two – any result with him alive and with all bits attached is a pretty positive result for someone with no adventure experience – but he’s not going to complain about the latter two. Those are fantastic bonuses, as far as he’s concerned.

 He’s still lost though, only now on a piece of unfamiliar mountainside, and without any food unless he’d like to fancy having a go at his sword or waistcoat. (Unnecessarily, let it be said that Bilbo really isn’t keen on that option.) He doesn’t even know if he’s on the east or west side of the Misty Mountains.

 While he focuses on getting away from the goblin caves’ back entrance and any trails goblins might tread, Bilbo doesn’t really pay much attention to where he’s going. He’s hoping, rather foolishly, that he’ll somehow manage to just stumble upon the rest of the Company instead of in circles, but that’s highly unlikely and he knows it.

And yet… that is exactly what he does. He hears familiar voices through the trees.

 Huh. What a token of luck this useful little ring is! He shouldn’t like to have to give it up if it’s going to serve him so well on this mad quest. He should keep it close, this. What a wonderful, lucky, precious little gift.


	6. Into the Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "But he isn’t in the Shire anymore and he isn’t the same hobbit anymore, and sometimes life is just strange."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. Got sick. Am better now.

Bilbo never thought he would ever feel fondness and knee-melting relief at the sight of someone telling another person that they should shove a brick of butter down their throat and choke on it if they found the brandy flavor so lacking. Or at the sight of someone inadvertently threatening a rock to give up their mutual mother’s wedding dress before anyone got hurt, because they would use this turtle, so help them hills.

But he isn’t in the Shire anymore and he isn’t the same hobbit anymore, and sometimes life is just strange. So Bilbo comes up to the bickering dwarves with fondness and relief and delight and gratefulness. Even if there is little like and understanding between them, he’s still glad to see they got out, aren’t dead, and appear mostly unharmed.

 At least a little in part because it means he isn’t alone out here and now doesn’t have to fend entirely for himself. He really hasn’t the foggiest how to do that and would probably somehow manage to die of starvation within twenty-four hours. This is a very good, absolutely wonderful, fortunate thing.

 Good even though the dwarves are very busy blaming each other for losing him. Bilbo can’t tell what his loss means to them exactly, still unable to read the nuances of their speech and gestures and postures and tone. Are they worried about him or how they don’t have a burglar anymore? Grim-faced and angry because they care too much or because they don’t care at all?

 Bilbo thinks that they actually do care, before Thorin speaks up and seems to be of the opinion that Bilbo clearly just went home, which stops him in his tracks. Home? Is that a joke? Is that a poor attempt at comfort or ending the argument? Bilbo can’t tell because Thorin doesn’t know Hobbitish and therefore isn’t making any of the further explanations that Bilbo needs to understand such an idea, instead accidentally talking about the poor stitching on the nearest tree.

 It must be a joke, Bilbo thinks. He’s seen Thorin exchanging sly comments with Dwalin, grinning at the stories and jokes that his nephews tell, and smiling at a quip from Balin that goes over Bilbo’s head. Admittedly, Bilbo has only been a distant witness to this possible sense of humor, which seems to be reserved only for those Thorin is close to, but it cannot not be a joke!

 Yes, _of course_ Bilbo just ambled back home like the coward he is _after being dropped into the depths of a goblin-overrun mountain._ Really, that just makes _perfect_ sense!

 Bilbo enjoys slipping the ring back into his pocket and seemingly stepping out from behind a tree, revealing himself and taking deep satisfaction in the surprise on the Company’s faces. He smiles widely at all of them while insulting them in greeting as one would Properly do of companions who had unintentionally ditched you, especially Thorin, because that had better not have not been a joke. Do they have to be _so_ surprised that isn’t dead and hasn’t done a runner?

 And does Gandalf have to look so suspicious of him? It gives Bilbo a feeling that the wizard is seeing right through him, especially through his pocket.

 After they stop being surprised, though, they’re happy to see him again. Delighted and celebratory and relieved, he thinks, from what he’s been learning of dwarves, and it’s very nice. It gives Bilbo a warm feeling of inclusion. He can almost imagine that the excited movements of the Company are Proper replies to him silently calling Thorin a shoe-wearing, mail-stealing, cake-burning potato-for-brains and severely cussing out Dori for forcefully picking him up and then _dropping_ him. They’re not, of course, but for this warm moment of smiles and relief, Bilbo can imagine something more than the coarse and crude nonsense the dwarves give off.

 Bilbo has no interest in eating anyone’s fingernails and he rather wishes he had never experienced such an offer, unintentional though it might have been.

 Somewhere along the line, Bilbo is asked _why_ he came back (aloud) and he doesn’t quite know how to respond to that. The real answer, which probably wouldn’t go over well, is that he never actually went _away._ He got dropped, dash it all! And it’s not really feasible for him to turn back now, actually.

 It’s not like the goblins are going to just let him wander back into their mountain and answer his questions about how to reach the western side. It wouldn’t go: ‘I’m trying to get back to Rivendell and their comfortable seats and nice wine. Oh- I should have taken the _left_ tunnel back there? Right! Thanks for the directions and not eating me.”

 So Bilbo tries to come up with something nice-sounding – a little white lie, something false but good – and ends up talking about how much he misses his own home. (By the hills, does he _miss_ his own home! He would probably shove the annoyingly-all-seeing Gandalf off a cliff if he could go home right now.) And ends up talking about how the dwarves do deserve to have their own home and Bilbo has decided (probably because he signed the contact, is a hobbit of his word, and has a newfound courage thanks to his new ring) to help them get it. Which… might actually be sort of true.

 Oh… that’s rather inconvenient, actually, him suddenly developing feelings about this quest. Bilbo has been fairly content disliking and being disliked by the Company. When did these dastardly dwarves manage to make him care even slightly? It’s that damn out-of-place fondness acting up again, he did not ask for this to come back.

 At least the dwarves all look somewhat sentimentally touched by Bilbo’s touched sentimentality – Bilbo ignores the fact that at least four of them are currently proposing ridiculous things with that tone of Hobbitish, Dwalin is sexually propositioning him _again_ (this poor dwarf), and that Bofur technically just offered him a crunchy roast duckling on a stick (which he thankfully does not actually have) – which hopefully means they’ll treat him less badly than they have been thus far. Bilbo doesn’t really have high hopes for them getting far beyond merely tolerating him, but he does have hope.

 Take that, Thorin.

 Oh dear, he’s just suddenly realized that if Dwalin has a horrible habit of making sexual propositions several times an hour, and the dwarf was the first to get to Bilbo’s home… How many people did the dwarf encounter and accidentally proposition on his way to Bag End? It’ll be a miracle if he didn’t give any Shire residents fainting spells. Oh dear.

 ~

But there’s no time to worry about inconsequential things like the health of the general Hobbiton populace, because suddenly there’s howling not far enough in the distance and the Company is running for their lives _again._ Really, they do too much of this and oh, maybe that’s why Bilbo’s started to care a little, because he started caring whether or not these dwarves and their weapons were here to protect him from whatever they’re running from. Slippery bloody slope that turned out to be.

 It’s wargs again – wargs and _orc riders_ – who manage to chase the entire Company up pine trees. Unfortunately, there aren’t any convenient wizards or elf patrols this time around on this side of the mountain, and Bilbo really thinks the contract should have mentioned how many times they’d end up on the run from wargs and orcs. This is one time too many for the _second bloody time._

 Then a white-skinned orc comes into view, riding a white-furred warg, and something about this seems familiar to Bilbo somehow. He’s never met this ugly creature before, that is definitely for sure, because while he’s not the most sociable of hobbits he would have noticed this orc at a Hobbiton tea party, but he knows he’s heard at least _some_ piece of juicy gossip or insult on… Oh. Right.

 Thorin’s mortal enemy sworn to kill the entire line of Durin, who everyone had assumed to be dead.

 The Company really ought to mention things like this _before_ the quest starts! Only… they also mentioned a bloody _dragon_ before the quest started and Bilbo still signed the foolish contract. He really ought to have actually _thought_ about these things before he signed up for this shit. He really should have expected to end up jumping from falling pine tree to falling pine tree, wargs nipping at their heels, with an adventure bid like the one the dwarves gave him.

 ‘Flaming pinecone missiles’ sums up pretty accurately the amount of planning to this madness and the ridiculous Hobbitish that’s been going on, and Bilbo would regret it more if he wasn’t so terrified that he was about to die. And also busy throwing flaming pinecone missiles at the wargs and their riders.

 ~

 It is not until Bilbo is clinging to a tree, in danger of falling off a cliff, watching the White Warg toss Thorin Oakenshield about like a cat that has found a new mouse to play with, that he stops being terrified enough to actually _think_ instead of getting caught up in the moment. It’s an odd place to have a moment of enlightenment, since they’re likely all about to watch Thorin die and then die themselves, but Bilbo has one anyway.

 Near-death experiences are apparently excellent for bringing enlightenment to a person. Presumably actual-death experiences are the same, except with the tiny different of how no one can use their new realizations.

 In this moment, Bilbo understands _why_ the lie he tried to tell about finding home turned out to be true and why he’s as fearful for Thorin as he is for himself. It is because, turning his sharp skills of observation to looking past the Hobbitish and the Proper Ways, he has learned quite a bit about this Company whether he’s wanted to or not. Them not willingly talking to him doesn’t make him deaf or any less noticing of things, it just… took some time to adjust… and he knows them, these dwarves.

 Not very much and not very deeply, admittedly, nor very closely, but… enough so that if he ever gets a chance to properly look around their improper Hobbitish, then he’d like to learn the rest of them. And… well… actions speak louder than words.

 Whether or not the Company has been rude and improper and mocking towards the hobbit and elves, whether or not their Hobbitish is completely rubbish, they’ve _still_ looked after Bilbo along the course of this quest. The Company might not like him, but he doesn’t like them either, and they still cast down their weapons when Bilbo got himself caught by the trolls and they made sure he stayed safe when they were being chased by wargs. They still fed him and put up with his complaining, and made some efforts to speak to him and include him, even when he was flinching at their every movement and clearly preferred elves over them.

 Bilbo is fairly certain that Thorin hates his guts, or at least resents him entirely, and yet the dwarf still risked his own life making sure Bilbo didn’t tumble off the mountainside during the Thunderbattle. And Dori picking him up and carrying him inside Goblintown just made sense, because Bilbo couldn’t actually see anything in that dark, unlike the dwarves and goblins. Without Dori picking him up, which was incredibly forward and inappropriate in Hobbitish, Bilbo probably would have run into a wall.

 So the Company may annoy the living daylights out of him sometimes and be the rudest, most nonsensical individuals he has ever met in his life, clearly ignorant of Bilbo’s way of life… but their actions speak louder than their words. It’s just that their actions haven’t be _Hobbitish_ actions. It’s not their fault there’s a barrier between them. They’ve saved his life saved times and they definitely deserve to know their home.

 Fíli and Kíli, excitable and growing and proud, deserve to live long, full lives and to come into their own as capable warriors.

 Ori, who hasn’t gotten over Bilbo’s unintentional cringing but remains steadfast, deserves to find confidence and experience.

 Dwalin, full of anger, and Balin, full of memories, deserve to see the fruits of their hard, thankless labour.

 Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur might be brash and seemingly rough, but they’re all so damn brave and caring and cheerful.

 Óin and Glóin are kind of amazing, although grumpy as badgers, and should see their families again.

 Dori and Nori are as different as day and night sometimes but they’re still both loyal and true, and they shouldn’t have to die for it.

 And Thorin…

 Bilbo still resents the git – probably in part because of the grocer comment, and probably mostly because it’s just so much easier to blame Thorin for every bit of the whole Company’s apparent rudeness, ungratefulness, and awfulness – but Thorin doesn’t deserve a death like this. No one deserves a death like this, because it is mean, cruel, petty, and terrible, and Thorin _especially_ doesn’t deserve a death like this. Thorin Oakenshield _cares_ so much – about his people, about his past, about his homeland, about his legacy, and about his Company – he has people who love him and people who are counting on him, and Bilbo kind of owes the arse his life.

 Someone really ought to do something.

 That someone, apparently, ought to be Bilbo.

 There aren’t many opportunities for someone to save someone else’s life in the Shire – at least, not near Hobbiton. Danger is more of a northern or a Buckland thing, but even then, there aren’t many opportunities for a regular hobbit to save someone, much less a _gentlehobbit._ Bounders might do it, but that’s just a part of their duties, and still fairly rare.

 So there isn’t exactly _Proper Hobbitish_ for Bilbo to follow for this particular action – and there’s no time, no control, besides. In the older Proper Ways, from the days of Bullroarer Took, there’s a form of marriage ceremony that involves pretend danger and someone saving someone else from the pretend danger. It’s fallen from tradition and style, but if Bilbo had to assign any Hobbitish to his improvised and hastily and thoroughly foolish actions that follow his enlightenment…  

 By some very old and odd Hobbitish, Bilbo Baggins technically accepts Thorin’s previous marriage proposal (there have been at least a dozen thus far, including Thorin saving him from falling off the cliff, much to Bilbo aghast misery) and marries the dwarf by climbing several pine tree branches, running as fast as his feet will carry him, and then stabbing an orc over Thorin’s near-unconscious body. He _really_ should have tucked his elbows in a bit more, but he was rather busy charging an orc twice his size and couldn’t have managed it if he’d remembered.

 He doesn’t think about that, though, because suddenly there’s a _very angry_ white orc and approaching orc riders to deal with. And also because Proper Hobbitish around people who don’t know Proper Hobbitish really kind of utter rubbish now that he thinks about it.

 Bilbo is almost engaged an average of twice over to just about every single member of the Company. Except Fíli for some reason. Which is a shame because Fíli is handsome, caring, protective, and very responsible, and would probably make an excellent husband if their ages were appropriate.

 Case in point: Fíli, Kíli, and Dwalin have finally managed to _move_ and are now protecting Bilbo and Thorin from getting stabbed repeatedly by orcs. Thanks the hills for all of them!

 But the fight isn’t over for Bilbo, unfortunately, because the White Orc and the White Warg are still trying to get at Thorin while the new battle rages. Bilbo tries to stab the fearsome mount but only manages to scratch it, and the warg knocks Bilbo back and out of breath. Then the White Orc urges his mount forward to finish Bilbo and Thorin off, and the hobbit wonders for a moment if telling the White Orc that he unintentionally said some very odd things in Hobbitish will do anything.

 It’s more than a little strange to have the deformed creature about to kill you be talking about how out of fashion your clothes are, how soggy the lamb dish from the fourth dinner course was, and how Thorin apparently once borrowed their wheelbarrow and never gave it back. Bilbo really never expected to die like this. He always thought the last words he ever had spoken to him would be at least slightly more sentimentally poignant than an orc saying in Hobbitish that Bilbo owes him the first dance of the Spring Festival.

 But thankfully, Bilbo doesn’t have to die with a horrific mental picture of an orc dancing at the Hobbiton Spring Festival wearing a flower crown, because suddenly there are giant eagles swooping down from the sky. Each one is bigger than all of Bag End, it seems, and they waste no time in tossing the orcs and wargs off the cliff or knocking them back. The eagles pick up the Company members one by one, including Thorin from the ground, and even Bilbo is plucked up and then screamingly tossed through the air onto the back of another eagle.

 He would be cussing out these birds aloud and in Hobbitish if not for the fact that he was little more than the size of a worm to a regular eagle for them! And also for the fact that his body is rather occupied with clinging to the eagle’s feathers with all his strength. Besides, Bilbo has no more desire to die at the beak or talons of a giant eagle than at the blade of an orc, thank you very much!

 Bilbo looks around as the eagles soar away from the Misty Mountains, catching sight of various members of the Company distributed between the birds. Bilbo sees Thorin, fallen unconscious in the talons of the closest, Fíli and Kíli screaming from the back of an eagle for their uncle to be alive. The dwarves that aren’t swearing mightily or clinging tightly are all looking fearfully towards their leader. Even Gandalf is looking concerned, from where the wizard comfortably sits on the eagle at the forefront.

 The Gentlehobbit looks back, feathers bunched in his hands, and watches the white spec of the White Orc and his mount disappear into the distance with fear and anger. They couldn’t toss _that one_ off a cliff?

 Another small part of him sighs in relief to watch the mountains grow smaller and smaller in the distance, some nervousness relaxing slightly at the thought that all the horrors and terrible things from inside the Mistry Mountains are being left far behind them now.

 Good riddance to bad rubbish.


	7. Oh, Think Big and Think Small

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s quite certain one of the ponies just woofed and that dog just whinnied. Incredible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been way too long. I'll admit two things here: 1) I kind of forgot about this fic, as much as I love it. The rewrite of it has just... not been at the top of my mind and most of the time, I just remember this fic as being done. 2) I'm kind of drunker than I've ever been before in my life right now. Please forgive any spelling errors.

 Bilbo gets hugged on the top of a mountain by Thorin Oakenshield, who is very much not dead (hurrah for dwarvish armour, for their leader is hurt but walking… well… limping), and it might just be the most awkward moment of his life.

 Frankly, Bilbo had been prepared to do a runner, because Thorin’s Hobbitish as the dwarf had approached (as well as his spoken tone and expression to a much lesser degree and Bilbo’s inexperienced reading) had been all but screaming via the Proper Ways that Bilbo was about to lose a limb of his choice. Since Bilbo was quite fond of his limbs and certainly of the choice that he’d like to keep all of them, he had been sort of frozen in terror and considering just jumping off the cliff. He had not been expecting a relieved exclamation of a mistake and then a hug.

 There are _so many_ things that this hug says in Hobbitish – most of them disgustingly and overtly romantic or _extremely_ sexual – but all Bilbo can really think about is that Thorin gives rather nice hugs. Sure, the armour is sort of uncomfortable and oh my hills, there is hair and fur just everywhere. Actually everywhere; damn, dwarf fashions. But… and the but is important… Thorin is warm and strong and big and it feels pretty amazing for the few seconds it lasts.

 Thorin should hug people more, because clearly the dwarf warrior has missed his true calling in life. Also because the dwarf seems so much happier and less of an arse all of a sudden, so he needs to embrace embracement for himself as well. It would better all around for everybody if Thorin hugged people more – especially Fíli and Kíli. Bloody hills, those boys could really use this hug and Bilbo feels guilty for a split second that he’s the one getting it.

 Then the Company leader lets go and the moment is over. Instead, the entire Company turns to stare at the distant sight of the Lonely Mountain for a very heart-lifting and inspiring moment of togetherness. It’s nice, Bilbo supposes, but he’s still stuck on the hug.

 He’s itching to take a bath – Thorin was just in a warg’s _mouth_ for the hills’ sake, _eurgh_ – because now that the hug is no longer influencing his mind, he’s realizing just how unrespectable and improper that was in Hobbitish. Like, stomach-wrenchingly scandalous. The sort of thing that only hobbit grandmothers dare to gossip about fifty years later, even if Bilbo and Thorin are sort of technically kind of married now.

 (Bilbo… doesn’t know how to even begin explaining the accidental marriage and betrothals to the Company? So, he’s decided that he just isn’t going to. They can figure that out on their own, is his benevolent decision, which has the lovely bonus of never happening and thus completely avoiding the problem forever.)

 He really ought to be keeling over from just how improper everything’s been, but… in this moment… with all the dwarves staring off a mountain sitting lonesome and lost on the horizon… and Bilbo admiring the scenery more than whatever Gandalf is blathering on about… Bilbo realizes two things.

 Firstly, he gets the ‘Lonely Mountain’ thing now.

 Secondly, he has a thought. It’s a most unhobbity thought, but… he likes it. So, he has it again and then has another unhobbity thought for good measure.

 Thorin’s hug may actually be the first time a member of the Company has ever touched him just for the sake of touching him. Instead of trying to spook him, hand him something, get him out of the way, save his life, or physically drag him somewhere.

 It’s also the first time Thorin has been friendly towards him – kind and grateful and like Bilbo is a valuable person instead of a burden. Bilbo refuses to whittle the dwarf’s raw, thankful sentiment to something foul for the tired old traditions of some uptight, old Shire biddies. It’s overdue and it could probably be better said, but Bilbo doesn’t care. It says something. 

 Besides, if – if _Gollum_ – the foul loathsome thing – could speak Hobbitish… well, what does that really say about Hobbitish? With a little thought, Bilbo suddenly feels a little ungrateful and petty for using the Proper Ways to silently insult the Company. How many people has Gollum approached and killed, all without a clue as to the nasty sentiments the hungry thing was crooning?

 Bilbo may be a gentlehobbit of the Shire, but he’s not in the Shire anymore. Little fiddly gesture don’t mean anything when you’re running for your life. He’s a hobbit on a quest. A _Quest._ To that small, sort of fuzzy shape on the horizon. He should really, really stop expecting the Shire’s ways to follow him here and start finding some new actions that speak new words. He’s always loved learning, even if he wasn’t prepared for the apparent brutishness and distant hostility at first.

 For real this time: he’s going to start ignoring the Proper Ways. No more mournful complaining or bemoaning shit, and a lot more keeping an open mind and a semi-blind eye. He’s got to stop thinking _small_ and start thinking _big._ In more ways than one.

 From the top of this cliff, Bilbo feels like he’s looking at the whole world spread out to see, side by side with these dwarves. He’s small and still sort of terrified, but the _world_ is ahead of him now. How is he ever going to get anything done if he keeps looking behind and thinking small?

~

It is a very good thing that Bilbo is trying to think big now – very good indeed – because registering the existence of their host requires it.

 Someone thinking hobbity about this would have been focused on all the little motions and gestures of _giant_ hands and limbs, which Bilbo has to admit he is still paying attention to because he can’t break his habit of reading it in a day. Hobbitish has been with him his whole life, and someone thinking hobbity wouldn’t be able to apply it to the very _big_ motions of gestures of this man. Something thinking small wouldn’t even be able to comprehend one of this man’s fingernails. Even just _looking_ at him, a mind has to think big.

 The trolls were large and grotesque and close, and the thunder giants were humongous and distant and unreal, and Beorn is a man somewhere in between. He is a man who is going to give Bilbo _neck problems_ if he doesn’t get down from out of the sky sometime soon.

  _Really, impersonating trees is not a becoming hobby,_ Bilbo decides as he stares up and _up_ and _UP_ at Gandalf’s choice host for their travel accommodations.

 Beorn is easily twice as tall as the wizard and would also be taller than four of Bilbo stacked with feet on shoulders. The man, if he can really be called that, is more of a moving tree or his own bloody _carrock_ than a believable being, and Bilbo’s inner hobbit is screaming at him to run for the hills from the terrifying large person before he accidentally gets stepped on or takes a shin to the face. How does a person even function being so large?

 Also, the wizard made some comment about Beorn being able to turn into a bear? That simply _cannot_ be true. Bilbo has never met a bear, never wants to, and likely never will, and suddenly finds them very important to him. He isn’t sure he can go on living without knowing for a fact that bears are always at least _less_ than _fifteen feet tall_ or however mountainous this bear-man is.

 It’s just plain unreasonable, that’s what it is. Bilbo should protest.

 Beorn performs his fair share of unintentional Hobbitish. It’s still nonsensical, of course, but surprisingly gentle and jovial (at least, what Hobbitish applies to him, because the Proper Ways really weren’t made for people as big as Beorn). This is perhaps because everything about Beorn seems to be jovial and gracious, if firm, and it translates. There cannot be much to be melancholy about when you can touch the sky with a lazy reach and your legs are the size of tree trunks.

 Also, because Beorn is so jolly and has to literally talk down to them, from Bilbo to Gandalf, his movements unintentionally have him addressing the Company in Hobbitish as though they are small – _very, very small_ – children.

 It’s sort of adorable, in its own way? And hilarious to have the giant man accidentally tell Thorin to mind his manners because he’s another soppy sentence away from a mouthful of soap. It is also quite hysterical to Bilbo when the man unintentionally tells Gandalf to get out of his bloody rose bushes, damn it, or he’ll dunk the wizard in the nearest body of water even if it has to be a bowl of soup.

 And it is, finally, more than a little satisfying to see Gandalf and the Company so blatantly and uncaringly condescended to, both gently in accidental Hobbitish and sceptically aloud. Beorn is obviously unimpressed by and aware of Gandalf’s plan to foist a lot of dwarves on him, if Bilbo’s reading of his expression is in any way accurate, telling their tale the way the wizard does.

 Fortunately, the giant man seems to find Gandalf’s hurried pressing and bouts of nervous bumbling, besides entirely unimpressive, more amusing than anything else.

 Bilbo imagines that Beorn likely frequently finds things both exceedingly unimpressive and vaguely amusing. The hobbit also imagines that the only things the colossus ever finds impressive are likely to be things close to his own size, including but not limited to: waterfalls, giant eagles, thunder giants, and the entire bloody Misty Mountains range.

 (Beorn is _big,_ alright? Bilbo needs a moment.)

 Beorn doesn’t seem to have much love for dwarves, as he openly admits aloud, but the giant man announces that he hates goblins and such even more. He seems intrigued by their story enough to want to hear it in more detail, and invites them in to share some of his supper.

 With a sigh of relief from Gandalf, the Company files into Beorn’s ridiculously large house that the man probably assembled with his bare hands and little effort, all eager for the promise of food.

 This is especially good because Bilbo is sure, going by the terribly improper fidgeting and the growling stomachs of the dwarves, that any longer would have seen someone saying something Beorn would have made them regret.

 Also good because Thorin really needs to sit down and get properly treated for the damage the White Warg inflicted before he kills himself from a combination of pure stoicism, wound inflammation, and gradual blood loss or the like. Óin is clearly getting twitchy about this; Dwalin is scowling at the Company leader with intense disapproval; Fíli has shifted closer and closer to Thorin as though he’s going to tackle his uncle at any moment and enforce healing treatment.

~

 Beorn’s makes Bilbo feel small – not unimportant, but actually physically _small._ It’s one thing to have a massive man walking about, looking down at them like geese or pigs or fauntlings underfoot, but a giant house drives home the reality of Beorn’s enormousness. Bilbo can only just touch the bottom of the chairs and the underside of the tables are far beyond his reach.

 The dwarves are very unhappy about this, which Bilbo can see by their blatant scowls and general distaste, especially towards the furniture. If Bilbo had to take a more detailed guess – ignoring their constant bad, nonsensical Hobbitish, which is currently on the subject of rose petal loaves and questionably placed piercings – the hobbit would muse the Company feels intimidated and doesn’t like it. Or possibly deeply offended on behalf of their entire people at Beorn’s ridiculously massive height – which is truly massively ridiculous, hobbits would fully agree.

 Bilbo doesn’t call them on it. It’s not important. Also, the concept would probably make Beorn laugh again and the entire house sort of shakes when the man laughs, and it’s terrifying. Also, lastly, because Bilbo is similarly concerned but also more personally concerned with the idea that Beorn can shapeshift and may very well still decide just to eat some of them.

 Because if Beorn _does_ decide to have a Company snack, Bilbo is probably the most edible choice of the lot. He’s not wearing armour and is small enough to be considered a finger-food, pre-supper snack. Do bears even like the taste of hobbit? Bilbo doesn’t want to find out.

 The hall of Beorn’s house, being painfully large, is effortlessly big enough to fit all fifteen of the Company. The hall is also occupied by four white ponies that seem much too white and beautiful, and several, long-bodied grey dogs that seem much too sharp and angular. The creatures trot under and around the giant furniture easily, familiar with the environment and obviously at home, but they still look very out of place indoors to Bilbo.

 Beorn, who definitely finds nothing odd about animals roaming freely about, opens his mouth and lets out an extremely queer string of animal noises. Clearly, it’s a language and Beorn is saying something to the creatures in this deep rumble of barks, neighs, and bleats, and Bilbo boggles as the animals hop off to somewhere, making more of the animal talk between them as they go. He hasn’t seen a pipe or bit of pipe leaf in a long time, so this really is extraordinary and fascinating.

 He’s quite certain one of the ponies just woofed and that dog just whinnied. Incredible.

 The Company fares no better, blatant disbelief on the faces that aren’t eyeing the door. Body language screaming, Bilbo thinks, that they’d like to make a run for it, while their Hobbitish makes their impossible excuses. Ori and Kíli look somewhat excited and awed, but the others appear to be doubting Beorn’s mental well-being very much.

 Bilbo privately thinks that Beorn is big enough that his mental well-being will always be in doubt and unchangeable. Having your head so far up in the sky sends bad air to your head, but the little folk can’t do much about that besides rake to an axe to big folks’ shins – that’s what his Aunt Belba always said. Bilbo doesn’t have an axe; Beorn is tall enough for Bilbo to forgive him most things he wouldn’t usually.

 For example: picking Bilbo up and placing him in one of the giant chairs.

 If Beorn were shorter and his muscle weren’t bigger than an entire hobbit, Bilbo would be mad – _very_ mad, just so mad. Firstly, he doesn’t like it. Secondly, because Beorn, with a pat of the head, technically just declared himself the hobbit’s new grandmother and Bilbo really doesn’t need another one of those, much less a fifteen-feet-tall, bear-shifting one. Adamanta Took-Chubb doesn’t need a run for her money like this.

 Besides, it’s funnier to look down and watch the rest of the Company figure out how to get up to sit at the table. For once, Bilbo is not the one unable to get up onto a high ledge and left behind until someone takes pity on him. It is a moment of true, perfect satisfaction for the hobbit.

 Beorn’s slight smirk lets Bilbo know that this was entirely intentional.

 Bilbo decides he rather likes Beorn.


	8. The Finer Points of Landscaping Decoration for Bears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo allows himself to presume that their stay at Beorn’s will go on no longer than absolutely necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting this mere minutes after the last chapter, I have two things: 1) I'm still drunk. 2) The purpose of this fic is still absurd humor. I've always liked that about the Hobbit, that the whole grand quest is a bit of a background to Bilbo's fumbling about and complaining and admiring the dwarves and etc. It's very good.

Beorn has left them to attend to business of his own, leaving them in the hospitality of his animal residents, servants, friends, attendants, or whatever the hills sort of coexistence he has with these creatures. Bilbo just doesn’t know and doesn’t care to ask, even though his Hobbitish is much harder to manage without knowing the rank and relationship of his hosts.

 The dwarves used teamwork to get up on the chairs and benches; it seems they’re quite used to coping with being unable to reach things. None of them have any problem with being flung into the air or being used a bit like a stepping stone or wrenching up a friend. It doesn’t take them long to conquer the furniture and Bilbo finds he approves.

 Bilbo isn’t sure how Gandalf got up. The wizard did it when no one was looking.

 Being served by ponies, dogs, and sheep – the sheep returned with the dogs and the ponies – is strange. It is doubly strange because the purpose of the sheep seems to be to form woolly stairs so that the dogs can take the food and drink from the ponies to the table. You have not had a wild dining experience, Bilbo feels, until you have seen a dog on its hind legs holding a food tray, balanced atop three sheep stacked as they move around a table.

 It engulfs even Bilbo’s wildest Shire dining experiences, which is really saying something, because hobbit high society is absurd. Bilbo’s mother and her sisters had a signature Teatime Tackle move that was nigh unstoppable at all the social functions.

 The food put before them is delicious, though, so Bilbo really couldn’t care less how it got there. The Hobbitish of the servers isn’t distracting at all, because it doesn’t apply well – or really at all – to paws and hooves. While there are terrible things being said with the placing of the plates and the plating of the food, the rest of non-existent and it’s a nice relief.

 Bilbo doesn’t know if he could have handled a pony telling Ori to stuff his cheeks with spicy peppers if that’s what he thinks of the seat covers (like Bifur is currently doing), or a dog telling Óin that the rows of his vegetable garden are uneven (Balin), or a sheep sexually propositioning anyone (poor Dwalin, what an unfortunate dwarf).

 Just… really… the ideas are bad enough. He doesn’t need to witness any of that and is glad he only has to bear horrified witness to the dwarves’ mutilation of the Proper Ways. Which, of course, he’s fairly adept at ignoring by this point.

 Instead, he can focus on the truly important things in life, like eating until he can’t eat anymore and finally getting a decent night’s sleep. It’s very important after the many horrible nights they’ve had since leaving Rivendell. Running from goblins, escaping Gollum, fighting orcs, and clinging to the backs of giant eagles leaves no time for Bilbo’s beauty rest.

 Bilbo falls asleep to sweet, almost familiar sounds.

 Fíli is unable to take it any longer and forces his grumbling and displeased uncle to submit to Oin’s grumbling and displeased healing.

 Animals are clearing the table of dishes, but the Urs are still trying to finish eating. Bombur, much to the hooting and laughing of his family members, has gotten into a tugging match with a pony.

 Strange, angry bleats and splashing water come from the other room where the dishes have been taken, where the sheep are apparently attempting to wash up. It doesn’t sound to be going well. Hooves and wet crockery probably don’t mix well.

 Dwalin and Glóin are stomping around in their heavy boots, doing hills-know-what that requires this of them. Weapons are out and occasionally clashing for some reason, Bilbo doesn’t want to know why.

 Ori is scribbling away onto paper like his life depends on it.

 Dori and Nori are bickering quietly, the both of them sewing angrily while doing so.

 Kíli and Balin – odd combination – are interrogating Gandalf about the eagles. Kíli just about the eagles themselves, the pure curiosity of enthralled youth, while Balin is demanding to know whether the eagles will be expecting the Company to pay travel fare for their assistance. Gandalf insists the noble eagles will not, in a ruffled and offended sort of manner, but Balin is sceptical.

 It’s all odd business, but surprisingly comfortable. Surprisingly comforting. Bilbo falls asleep, curled under the thick blankets that Beorn’s animals have left for them, with a happy hum. It feels nice to be safe again.

~

“…what…”

 shifting shoulders [ _resigned, bored, less than me, humouring you, worthless you_ ]

“… _has_ it…”

 lowering eyelids [ _watching, always watching, careful now, seeing every bit, you can’t get away from **my** eyes_ ]

 “... _got…_ ”

 moving jaw [ _hungry guest, let me eat, bad host, not letting me eat, serve the meal **now**_ ]

 “…in iTS…”

 twitching fingers and shifting weight and bending arms and sneering lips [ _disdain, hate you, going to mAke you **hurt** , rip into YoU, tear you **ApAR** T, **TE ACH yOUPAIN **_]

“… _POCKET?_ ”

~

 Bilbo wakes in a cold sweat with the image of large – _too large_ – eyes gleaming after him in the darkness and a wide – _too wide_ – mouth only a breath away from his throat. He calms his ragged gasps and feels his panicking heart ebb back into a less painful rhythm.

 Maybe he didn’t leave the Misty Mountain as behind him as he thought he did.

  _(Hah. Agreed.)_

 Bilbo peers around the enormous, darkened hall and carefully counts each member of the Company, then he stares at the walls for a long while. At least, until he realizes that he’s actually watching the walls to make sure they won’t open while the Company’s sleeping. No. No, they’re far away from that now. The walls of Beorn’s house aren’t going to move. That’s silly.

 Bilbo uses the familiar snores of the nearby Company to remind himself that they’re all alive and safe, and then to convince himself that he isn’t in a mountainside cave or the dank depths of a goblin pit anymore. He lies back down and curls the blankets tighter around himself.

 He puts a hand in his pocket and tells himself that the faint, constant growling and the scratching at the door is just his imagination or their host. He has nothing to worry about. He firmly remembers walking through Beorn’s thick door and he can see, through the gloom, the tree trunk of a bar across the wood. He’s safe. He’s safe. He’s safe.

  _(Oh. What a pretty lie that is.)_

 Sleep is slow-coming. Bilbo listens to the thumps and howls until the darkness turns to greyish dawn and his fitful thoughts relax enough to become uneasy nothingness.

 ~

 So, it turns out what Beorn was up to during the night was gathering up a bunch of bear friends – a _whole lot of them,_ there are bear paw prints of horrific sizes all around and Bilbo’s heart seizes when he first sees them all – and going out on a merry hunt together for the orcs of the Company’s story. Beorn cheerfully tells them this in the morning, over another animal-served meal.

 How there isn’t fur and wool and hair in everything, Bilbo has no idea.

 Apparently, Beorn was _this close_ to just killing them all for being so loud and annoying and possibly liars, but it turns out they were telling the truth! Hah hah! Good thing that the Company was telling the truth, eh? Eh? Hah hah.

 Then Beorn leads them outside, which is when Bilbo notices the bear prints everywhere, and shows them the new orc heads and bodies on pikes on the far borders of his yard. One of the head even has a spine still attached to it – which, _oh,_ is _dripping_ – and Bilbo promptly gets sick in the nearest bit of garden. No one seems to pay attention to him, thankfully, not even Beorn, who is much too busy proudly showing off the new warg skint that he’s _nailed to a tree_ by the orc heads.

 Although personal experience and literally every single story he’s ever heard told about them agree that orcs are a blight upon Middle Earth, Bilbo feels really sorry for the bastards. Having Beorn and a _horde_ of bears descend upon you is a fate that Bilbo wouldn’t wish on anyone.

 Not even his Aunt Camellia. May the hills forever curse that witch.

 Once Bilbo stops bringing his breakfast back up and listens to what Beorn is saying, he must retch a few more times for good measure and wilfully feigns deafness. He doesn’t need to hear any of the details of Beorn’s merrily gruesome adventures with his bear mates, which seems to involve a lot of screaming orcs and good bloody fun all around. Not on the orcs’ part of course, but they apparently don’t count.

 The Company’s reactions are all somewhat funny though. Beorn did all of it himself – the killing and the decorating – and he’s quite proud. What members of the Company can find their voices are all very sure to compliment their host.

 All the compliments go more or less like this: “Oh, how positively… um… bloody that head is… with the stake through the roof of its… oh, fuck… open… uh… mouth. Excuse me, please. _Blergh._ Sorry, about that, just had to sneeze. Do it yourself, then? Lovely.”

 Kíli has gone quite white. Fíli had gone very red. Ori appears to have turned greenish sort of shade that doesn’t look good on him. Meanwhile, Dori looks to be a bit purple-y, Bofur and Bombur seem quite yellowish, and Thorin looks to be turning as blue as the House of Durin’s colours. It’s a veritable rainbow of dwarves.

 As for the other dwarves: Óin is openly and deeply abhorrent of what’s in front of him, although that could be from the unsanitary nature of orc heads on sticks as much as the horror. Nori, in contrast, has gone completely expressionless. Bifur looks equally horrified and fascinated by the ripped-off orc head and spine. Balin is clenching his teeth hard enough to break something. Glóin looks like his eyes will pop out of his head if he doesn’t keep hold of them. Dwalin looks a tad disgusted but mostly mildly impressed.

 Thorin and Gandalf, for once, appear to be of the same train of thought. They both look fairly impassive, a bit fearful, a bit sick, and determined to be utterly respectful until the time comes that they can be long gone as shortly as possible.

 Bilbo allows himself to presume that their stay at Beorn’s will go on no longer than absolutely necessary. They’ll be gone within the next five minutes, maybe. Five seconds if it can be managed.

 Gandalf is clearly rethinking his choice in travel accommodations and it seems likely that Thorin will never again trust the wizard to make any kind of decision ever. Gandalf has officially, Bilbo would gamble, just become lower on Thorin’s list of “people I trust to make sensible decisions” than Fíli, Kíli, and Bilbo. It probably doesn’t get much lower than that for Thorin.

 Interestingly, for the first time perhaps, all Hobbitish and Proper Ways fly completely out of Bilbo’s mind. He doesn’t even register the lack of them. His thoughts are far too busy being concerned with finding somewhere new to let loose whatever foul humours he still has in his stomach, then with hiding under some warm blankets and pretending that he’s never seen a (literally) bloody orc spine in his life.

 After Beorn is done regaling them with his combined hobby of orc-killing and garden landscaping, the Company troops back inside to be further regaled with everything the giant man knows of the mountain, Mirkwood, and the dragon. Somehow, Beorn is in an even better mood than before. The Company does their best to force out laughter at whatever sounds like a joke.

 Except Ori, who has his face in his hands and isn’t coming up for air to laugh with.

 When a man more than four times your size, who also has heads that he personally ripped off shoulders with his bare hands (or maybe _bear_ hands, who knows, both could be accurate) decorating his front yard, you _laugh_ until you throw up again at his jokes. Why? Because there’s a _fucking warg nailed to a tree and orc heads on stakes outside._

 Hills, where’s a blood bucket? Oh, goodness.

 Bilbo misses Rivendell.

 ~

 Bilbo is still keeping to his promise of thinking big. He is, really, he is. It’s just that he needs to think small for a short, little while, because he really can’t handle listening to anything that comes out of Beorn’s mouth anymore. So, Bilbo is going to focus on the small things, like Hobbitish, for the sake of his mental well-being and his equally disturbed stomach.

 On the positive side of things, Bilbo’s camaraderie with the Company has never been beeter.

 Bilbo kept trolls from eating them, then Thorin from being killed by wargs, but the dwarves have never looked so grateful as when Bilbo makes himself look as pitiful as possible, pipes up, and tells Beorn that the bear man is scaring him a little with such gory topics of conversation.

 Beorn informed Bilbo that the hobbit was too squeamish – small, unworldly thing – but that he would lessen his descriptions for the sake of having such a delicate guest. Wonderfully, the man then did.

 Kíli looked like he was going to _cry_ from relief and Bofur subtly tipped his hat at Bilbo from across the room.

 That latter action is technically, in Hobbitish, a flirtacious offer to sell a gentlehobbit some prime ham a decent discount due to how pretty Bilbo looks today. However, Bilbo elects to ignore this interpretation and smiles back at Bofur – an unspoken statement of welcome that was, to the notice of no one save Bilbo, in complete accordance with the Proper Ways, of course.

 Beorn is quite the expert on Mirkwood, apparently, as he has much to say on the subject despite Gandalf and Thorin’s hedging that there isn’t much time to say it in. Mirkwood is a dark and desolated place according to their host. Beorn is only too happy to dramatically explain, in great detail, just how dark and desolate their next destination is, despite the Company’s complete lack of prompting him.

 Five minutes in, Bilbo prefers to focus on how, in Hobbitish, Glóin just asked his brother if Óin thinks Glóin’s child has preference for blonds or brunets. Óin replies that he thinks someone of a leafy green background would work. Random, of course, but much more pleasant to listen to than Beorn’s discussion of rotting goblin corpses that he found in an outer forest glad this one time.

 Bilbo has known hobbit _gossips_ who didn’t talk this much.

 In hindsight, the fact that this enormous man lives alone with a bunch of ponies, dogs, and sheep really should have clued Bilbo in to the fact that his conversational skills might be… slightly one-sided. Seriously, in hindsight, this was really obvious. If Bilbo had let himself be the petty Shire hobbit, he would have realized this when it came to him as an insult in the first five minutes.

 Beorn definitely needs more people-shaped company in his life, but Bilbo would prefer that it not be _this_ Company.

 The giant man talks for so long that they are forced to stay another night, as Óin insists they ought to do anyway for Thorin’s health and the overall Company’s rest. Some of the Company are prepared to leave even in darkness, but Beorn insists they stay and Beorn insisting on something doesn’t really give anyone leave to refuse, refute, or do anything but imitate a doormat.

 Fíli ha, briefly, stared wistfully out into the night like it would give him refuge. Unfortunately for him, Dwalin had stopped his flight by putting a firm hand on Kíli’s shoulder, keeping the younger in place and therefore the elder as well.

 By this point, Bilbo has witnessed his (technical and accidental) new grandmother, Beorn, question the Company’ choice in washroom soaps, demand of Bifur what was wrong with his sky pots, proposition Thorin into becoming allied begonias against the current pie-making champions, inquire about the health of Balin’s earlobes, and accept every single sexual suggestion that has come his way. Also, half-adopt Nori, but possibly anywhere from three-quarters or three-fifths adopt Nori because Beorn’s size does make his Hobbitish somewhat difficult to translate sometimes.

 This isn’t even getting started on the things that the Company has been unknowingly saying in return. Like how Bombur is planning to make a cape and shoes out of fruit peelings that he’ll wear on all his midnight escapades. All of which reminds Bilbo exactly why he told himself _not_ to pay attention to any of the dwarves’ Hobbitish, so badly that he spends most of the rest of the evening staring at his hands and thinking about inconsequential things like the appropriate ways for a bachelor to organize his closets and how the Proper Ways dictate a family of five should organize their coat hooks.

 Bilbo falls into bed even more gratefully than before, hoping deeply that the rest of the quest will go more smoothly than how it has thus far. At least, even if it doesn’t, he won’t have to listen to Beorn’s (literally) bloody anecdotes any longer. Bilbo and the dwarves are actually getting along better now, bonded by the intimate relationship of saving each other’s lives and the mutual horror of completely inappropriate, stomach-turning dinner party stories.

 For a hobbit, the latter is a completely acceptable reason to form a lifelong friendship.

 ~

 The next morning, the Company is ready – practically raring – to go.

 Beorn is oddly accepting of this, even providing them with fifteen ponies to take them to the forest’s edge, but ends up giving them a lot of last minute advice. Somehow, Beorn apparently forgot to tell them a lot of very important information while talking to them for hours and hours and _hours_ yesterday. The giant man lectures them swiftly while they mount their ponies, completely oblivious to Thorin and Gandalf’s loud noises about leaving.

 The Company would just ride off – Fíli and Kíli have tried and are still trying, rather desperately, to just ride off – but the ponies aren’t going anywhere without Beorn’s saying-so. The rest of the Company appears to resign themselves to this after the first fifteen minutes or so. Another five minutes and Dwalin is opening sharpening his axe and Balin has pulled out a long scroll for some light reading. Ori has his book open with a bottle of ink set on his pony’s head, Dori has his sewing out, the Urs are having a conversation in their signing language, and Glóin has lit his pipe.

 Beorn’s is apparently oblivious to all of this and focuses on Thorin, who therefore is saddled with realistically feigning attention instead of entertaining himself like the rest of the Company. By the end of this, Thorin may very well be a veritable expert on Mirkwood, or he’s just that remarkably good at pretending to listen to someone. Thorin’s jaw looks too clenched for the latter to be true, though, the poor dwarf.

 Bilbo spends the entire time trying very hard to look anywhere and think of anything besides the orc heads on stakes or the warg still nailed to the tree. Or worse: pay any attention to the _smell._

 By the time that Beorn is finally done talking, it’s more accurate to say that the Company flees the man’s house rather than just leaves it. They really have to stop fleeing from everywhere. This is a pattern that is becoming seriously distressing and Bilbo would like it to stop.


	9. Why is it Always Giant Spiders?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just looking towards the forest, Bilbo is certain that the dark, gloomy path through the woods stretches to become gloomier, darker, and much longer before them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my friend and current housemate, who adores fantasy things like Dragon Age, Dungeons and Dragons, Skyrim, and LOTR and The Hobbit, and has arachnophobia. It's really made me think, y'know, witnessing her search for appropriate mods and filter her fantasy, about how the SOUS (Spiders Of Unusual Size) in the Fantasy genre is probably largely based on Shelob and her friends/babies (and arachnophobia being a very common phobia). 
> 
> Tolkien, my man, this is your fault. I see you, man. _I see you._

Bilbo doesn’t really know where to go from here, now that they’re away from Beorn’s conversation and decorating skills, and on the road again. Now he finally has his chance to get to know and get along with the Company, since he’s determined to ignore their Hobbitish and has realizes that the dwarves have honestly been fair towards him despite the fact that Bilbo had apparently spent their journey acting as high-nosed as… well, as a Baggins, and as prejudiced as… well, most gentlehobbits, actually.

 The only problem with developing this new relationship he could have with the dwarves is that Bilbo forgot – it’s just been so long since he actually tried to get along with someone new, or tried to socialize sincerely instead of just making polite talk – that he doesn’t actually know _how_ to make friends.

 The Proper Ways and Shire traditions have hobbits falling in with like-minded and acceptably socially-ranked hobbits easily enough. More than one friendship has spawned out of two hobbits having similar taste in food, clothing, insults, and kinks. Bilbo’s Aunt Pansy met her lifelong friend, a Boffin, at her bridal party when they both threatened to tear apart the host’s (the groom’s sister) furniture covers with sewing scissors and a fork respectively for a reason that Bilbo has never asked about but was told about anyway. From what he understood before he desperately slammed his eyes shut, it apparently had to do with the use of ropes in the bedroom and the shaming thereof.

 If one didn’t fall in with fellow hobbits due to insults and tastes, then there was always family to see a gentlehobbit through. Bilbo loves many of his family members dearly and gets along well enough with most of them, but he also hates nearly all of them. It’s just the way things are in Hobbiton and hobbit high society most of the time. Bilbo spends more time trying to get them to bugger off than being nice to them and they still have his back when facing off with Bracegirdles.

 So… Bilbo Baggins hasn’t really had to… make an effort to make a relationship of any kind before. People usually want to be friends with _him_ for some reason or another – like his home, his riches, his connections, and so on – despite his own desires. This disparity is really working against Bilbo now and he hasn’t the faintest idea how to overcome it.

 What sort of conversational topics do Bilbo and the Company really have in common, anyway? The dwarves don’t know what the Proper Ways are, much have any interest in listening to Bilbo’s thoughts on deconstructing hobbit culture. The Company has just about exhausted how terrible Beorn was and collectively agreed to pretend the entire experience never happened, and discussing the other quest events seem just as appealing, which is to say: not at all.

 Bilbo is drumming up the courage to ask one of the Ri brothers about their needle-based crafts when the Company reaches the outskirts of Mirkwood. Bilbo still has yet to try to start a conversation when Gandalf announces that he has some of his own business to take care of and won’t be accompanying them through the forest, which interrupts Bilbo’s bravery quite cuttingly.

 Bilbo takes one look at the entrance to Mirkwood and spends the next ten minutes viciously cussing the wizard out in Hobbitsh. (Look, he knows he said that he would stop using Hobbitish when he couldn’t be understood, but what the _hills_ is _this_ shit.) Thorin and the rest of the Company seem equally as pleased, grouching loudly at Gandalf for ditching them, but the wizard is not to be dissuaded by any means. The Company and Bilbo are left to grumble as they gather their things from Beorn’s ponies, who looks very eager to get far away from the gloomy trees.

 Personally, Bilbo feels that it really should have clued them all in when Beorn refused to let his ponies continue past the treeline. He wasn’t listening earlier, but that really doesn’t bode well. The general appearance of the forest doesn’t bode well. Bilbo probably should have listened more to Beorn’s stories; it might have permanently disturbed his mind, but at least he’d be forewarned.

 Gandalf leaves them, apparently like he was always planning to do, with a cheerful wave. Bilbo vaguely remembers the wizard mentioning this earlier and tells himself to start considering the things he overhears.

 Then the ponies leave them too and Bilbo quashes down on the urge to tell them to come back and take them with him. At the very least, the ponies could bring Beorn back here, please. (The Company really should have brought the giant bear man. Giant bear men seem like they’d be an all-purpose, useful member on any quest. Essential, even. They should have brought Beorn, the giant bear man, Bilbo is saying so now, although not aloud to actually to anyone.)

 The Company is left, just a bunch of dwarves and a hobbit, on the borders of Mirkwood. Just looking towards the forest, Bilbo is certain that the dark, gloomy path through the woods stretches to become gloomier, darker, and much longer before them. There’s a chilly, howling wind all of a sudden and _nooo,_ of course that’s nothing to worry about! Thorin leads them into the time-torn trail into the ominous forest, without a care to the fact that “ominous” as a description is reason enough _not_ to go into any forest in Bilbo’s esteemed opinion.

 As Bilbo inwardly complains, to the hobbit’s left, Kíli mutters to his brother that he finds the idea of their uncle in charge of direction without Gandalf to be almost as terrifying as the haunted, overgrown forest itself.

 Fíli chuckles lihtly, catches Bilbo’s curious look, and then gives Kíli a significant look that even Bilbo’s hobbity observation skills can’t make anything of. Then, suddenly, Bilbo finds himself stuck between two dwarf brothers determined to regale him with every story about their family that Bilbo never asked to hear but is delighted to be listening to.

 Their Hobbitish is as atrocious as always, both in general and towards him, but Bilbo doesn’t mind. It’s funny. Kíli alternates between referring to Bilbo as a younger, unmarried sister who must be protected from many lusty suitors and a beloved sweetheart who must be treated to romantic confessions by moonlight and sweet, sweet, passionate loving under the stars. Fíli is very similar, though without the romance, treating Bilbo like another younger sibling, cousin, or his own child. Bilbo ignores all that nonsense and welcomes the interaction as a wonderful distraction from their surroundings.

 Maybe this place isn’t that bad.

 Well, no, it really is that bad. However, all Bilbo really has to do here is follow the rest of the Company, who are all following Thorin, and all Thorin has to do is follow the bloody path. Even the apparently incredibly directionally-challenged Thorin Oakenshield – and Bilbo does mean _incredibly,_ if even half of what Fíli and Kíli are saying is true, then it’s a miracle that their uncle can even walk in a straight line – can follow a single path through a dark and gloomy forest.

 Ori and Nori join in after the third story, since they were both eavesdropping, when Nori completely refutes Kíli’s claim of some fact and Ori retells the story in a way that paints the Durin brothers in a much more embarrassing light than the original story did. Then _Dwalin_ (along with his accidental sexual statements that don’t even phase Bilbo anymore) almost _gleefully_ joins in with greater detail that turns both Fíli and Kíli bright red and likely causes them to regret telling tales around people who saw them grow up.

 Even never having met the woman, Bilbo, over the course of these increasingly wild and hilariously embarrassing and wonderfully sweet stories, quickly develops a healthy fear of Fíli and Kíli’s mother. Even if Balin didn’t advise so directly, Bilbo can read between the lines around Lady Dís.

 Hobbitish is a language full of insults – truly terrible insults – and threats – truly nasty threats. While the insults can range anywhere from completely unmeant to completely definitely meant – there are some hobbits who very much mean that they want you to shove an eggplant in each of your orifices – most of the threats are quite empty. Most hobbits will never actually attempt to physically follow through.

 (That qualifier is important. _Most_ hobbits wouldn’t try, and still no one had tried anything too outrageous very _recently._ The last bit is a long story that is traditionally only told in Hobbitish nowadays, and Bilbo’s never even heard it in its entirety because of how outrageous it is. Let it simply be said that there are some very good reasons that several certain families don’t speak anymore.)

 Lady Dís sounds like the sort of person who would gladly, fully physically follow through with even her most creative threats. She sorts like the sort of mistress of the house who would up the ante of her threats just in case anyone thought they could take the first threat – like, say, exchange eggplants for pumpkins, then decide that vegetables were a waste of time and good produce, and grab a bunch of rusty knives instead. Move the cliff until they’re already off it, sort of thing.

 Lady Dís sounds like the personification of Proper Hobbitish threats themselves. Bilbo would dearly love to meet her someday, so long as she likes him and doesn’t try to go for any eggplants with intent. Forget Beorn, why didn’t they bring Lady Dís?

 No, really, why didn’t they bring the apparently axe-wielding, fear-and-awe-inspiring, not-directionally-challenged Durin? Why did they not bring the – according to the entire Company, even Thorin, who admits so most grudgingly – scary dwarf warrior lady? Who, according to her sons (who are probably exaggerating, but still) is mighty enough to break tree trunks in half with one hand and dislodge mountains with a kick of her iron boots?

 No, Bilbo doesn’t really care that Thorin needed to leave someone competent back home to keep the mountain from falling down while he was gone. Bilbo wants to live through this horrible forest where happiness probably goes to get terribly drunk and die, thank you.

 ~

 Somehow, and Bilbo isn’t entirely sure _how,_ he’s managed to lose the entire Company and also himself. He’s lost both his companions and his way in this horrible, awful, overgrown, gloomy, dark, awful forest. (Did he mention awful? Because this place is awful.)

 Just… like… just… Bilbo realizes that elves like to take more “natural” approach to the plants on their property, he really does, but this is absolutely ridiculous. If one of these trees gets up and tries to eat him, or turns out to be highly toxic to the touch, Bilbo isn’t even going to be surprised, because that’s just the kind of place Mirkwood seems to be. It’s named _MIrk_ wood for the hills’ sake.

 If Bilbo ever finds another living thing that isn’t a plant or beast, he’s going to complain about how unacceptable this is and it is going to be a reckoning to remember. Admittedly, he’s probably going to lose his courage to do so aloud, but it will still be a reckoning to remember… if one knows their Proper Hobbitish to keep it. It will be _fearsome_ to behold. The Shire will quiver from it, despite the distance, and not even know why.

 Bilbo can’t quite remember how long the Company has been making their trek through Mirkwood. He knows that it’s been quite some time since they started, but the thick trees started blocking out the sunlight very quickly.

 When the sun wasn’t high in the sky and the treeline was particularly thick, Bilbo had become reliant on the Company, who had been horrified at Bilbo’s admittance of not having nearly as good night vision as dwarves, through the darkness. Sometimes, to keep them moving at a decent pace, Bilbo had needed someone at his elbow. An inappropriate touch according to the Proper Ways, yes, but Bilbo felt that it hardly mattered when he couldn’t walk without tripping over the worst kept path he’s ever _not_ seen.

 At some point, they started losing nearly all track of time, despite the dwarves’ keen eyes. A person could hardly tell the difference between night and day sometimes. Sometimes it had seemed as though the day was being skipped over in favour of the next night, it was so terribly dark.

 There’s something wrong about these woods, something poisonous in the vapour and something wicked in all the forest’s horrible murk. Bilbo would readily say that this is _infected_ and that it was infecting the too, although he isn’t clear on how exactly it all happened.

  _(Oh, something much darker and far beyond you, little halfling.)_

 Hobbit, not halfling.

 The Company had walked for days and days along the unsteady, winding path. Then they’d come to the river – misting and eerily opaque in places – and Bombur fell in. They walked for days and days more after that, with the Company suffering from having to carry their robust and unconscious friend, and Bilbo starting to lose general awareness of the world, just a little, from lack of sunlight.

 All of them had been losing it a little, Bilbo thinks, as the food and water started running out and their thankless trudging led them more and more nowhere. The gloom and poison of this sick place had built up enough to start to get to them. Bilbo’s Hobbitish observations were quick to notice the faint tremors and slips in the Company’s movements and gestures.

 By the time the path disappeared, Bombur had since woken up and everybody was ambling about like they were drunk on the best Winyards’ liquor and talking like they might have partaken in just a bit too much of Mister Longbottom’s _special_ pipe leaf mixture. (Which is a simile Bilbo is drawing purely from stories he’s heard. It isn’t like he would recognize this from a _previous experience_ of any kind. Definitely not. If his Took cousins tell different, they’re lying.)

 Bilbo had, of course, done his utmost to keep his Hobbitish as Proper as possible – all his movement exactly as he meant them – but it was like his limbs had other plans. It hardly seemed to matter when Bilbo had had trouble keeping his own Hobbitish straight sometimes. It all got confuddled somewhere up there. His tongue had been unfairly uncooperative too. Words were such strange things, really difficult things, especially when there was a fuzzy, creeping darkness in your head.

 Hmm.

  _(It’s nothing. You’re just a bit hungry. Just a bit tired.)_

 No, it’s not just that. It’s definitely something more.

 But then – oh _then_ – there was some odd light off in the trees and the Company was out of their minds enough to stumble off the path, into the dark woods, after it. Bilbo tried to protest, because when was it a good idea to stumble after a light in the trees? Didn’t they learn this shit with the trolls? _Exactly_ this? But for his troubles, Bilbo was knocked over, into a small ditch, and knocked his head against a tree root.

 When Bilbo came to his sense and his feet again, his head was much clearer than it had been before, even though it ached like he’d been hind-kicked by an ass.

 Also, the Company was entirely gone and so was the light.

 Bilbo is sick of this thing where he gets separated from the dwarves in dark, ominous, gloomy places filled with unknown beasts with wide, glowing eyes. When Bilbo sees the dwarves again, he is _definitely_ going to give them a reckoning. He’ll complain! Aloud this time!

 Hah, no. He knows he won’t.

 Now… he’s lost. He’s so very lost and he hasn’t the faintest where he’s headed.

 Bilbo knows he needs to find the Company, because really, Bilbo would probably manage to starve to death within a day if he’s left to survive in the wilderness on his own. Not just because his survival skills in such places are regrettably lacking, so deeply so that any efforts of his would probably worsen his chances of survival, but also because eating _anything_ in here would have terrible consequences.

 Where could the dwarves have gone? How long could they have been gone? Did something take them like the trolls did? Snatching them up and tying them up from neck to toe in sacks, _again?_ Bilbo really hopes not. They’ve seen little life in these woods so far. What could have taken them?

 ~

 Giant spider.

 What the _fucking, shitty hills._

 Giant _fucking_ spiders.

 This is unacceptable.

 No.

 Just – just _no._

 He’s done.

 This is the last straw. He’s going home, for real this time.

 Because _no._

 (…The only positive side of things here is that Hobbitish and the Proper Ways do not, in any form, apply to the spiders and the movements. There is no way to horribly misinterpret their gestures – NO. THERE ARE NO GOOD QUALITIES TO THE EXISTENCE OF SPIDERS BIGGER THAN HE IS. NONE.)

 Bilbo is neither qualified nor willing to deal with this sort of thing, really, not at all. He knows he has to try and do _something_ before the Company ends up as something else’s meal, _again,_ but… Why do so many things on this quest want to eat them? Dwarves can’t possibly be that appetizing.

 Why can’t these bloody spiders just eat some infected Mirkwood plants and die? That’s an option. Bilbo really likes that option, actually, it should be a more prominent and possible option.

 Bilbo kicks a tree in sheer frustration at the situation.

 One of the spiders pauses, then… turns.

  _Oh, fuck._

 Oh, my fuck, oh, fucking hills, no. Oh no. Where the _fuck_ is Bilbo’s sharp, metal killing thing? He needs it. He needs it _right now, thank you very much._ Oh, got it. Get away, get away, swing, _get away._

 Oh, bloody… _shit._ Spider’s blood. Spider’s blood _everywhere._ Screaming and blood and flailing and blood. Bilbo didn’t sign up for this shit. _Why is it black?_ Oh, _eugh._ Dead spider, dead spider, ew, ew, ew. They’re not any better dead when they’re alive. Oh, _bloody-_

 Oh, shit, there’s more of them.

  _(Put. The. Ring. On. You. Fool.)_

 Good idea.

 ~

 Forever and a bit later, it’s over. All the spiders are dead and the Company is free. Bilbo freed one of the dwarves from the spiders’ webs in a desperate moment as he was running for his life, and the dwarves thankfully did the rest all on their own from there, and are now picking the last bits of web off themselves while bemoaning their complimentary baths in spider blood.

 Bilbo’s sharp, metal killing thing is also covered in black spider blood. It even has a name now, due to recent events, namely the spiders’ hissing and wailing. Bilbo’s named it _Sting._

 The tiny blade – perfectly hobbit-sized, now that he’s had the opportunity to really use it – even seems to hum in pleased agreement with its new name. Bilbo likes to think he and the blade have come to an agreement. Much like his journey with the Company, a few life-threatening situations really encourage an appreciation for things not previously understood.

 Although, the blade does give off a feeling like cutlery tapped a tad too hard against a wine glass – an unpleasant, jarring ringing of sorts – whenever it comes in contact with the golden ring still on Bilbo’s finger. It’s a… very odd feeling.

  _(Elf-forged trash.)_

 A decidedly odd feeling, Bilbo thinks.

  _(…)_

 Still, Bilbo is incredibly grateful that he’s found them both: the sword and the ring. Especially the ring. He’s not much of a warrior, which is obvious in his strategy of hitting things with his sharp, metal killing thing with the sharp, metal part of it. If he hadn’t this ring to help him evade these awful spiders, Bilbo doesn’t know what would have happened exactly, but the quest probably would have ended right then and there and the entire affair would have made for a very depressing story of warning.

 Now all that’s left to do is take off the ring and join the Company again…

 …who are surrounding by pale-haired, armed elves pointing deadly weapons at them.

 On second thought, Bilbo is keeping the ring on, thank you.

 


	10. The Woods are just Trees, the Trees are just Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a bit of wine-fuzzed memory, the contents of one of the books from Rivendell informs Bilbo that this… this glorious, grown structure is the gateway to the centre of the Woodland Realm, the Court of the Elfking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title take from the "Prologue" song from the "Into the Woods" musical. Gonna see this musical in November (2017), I'm pretty psyched. I love musicals and I enjoyed that movie.

 These lighter, brighter elves are not much like the elves of Rivendell at all. Bilbo, upon observation as he quietly and invisibly trails after the elf-kidnapped-and-escorted Company, decides that he much prefers the darker Rivendell elves. The elves of the Hidden Valley were much more laid-back, and these ones seem like they’d rather cut the Company’s throats than look at them.

  _(Mirkwood elves… paler and crueller by far.)_

 It’s even reflected, just slightly, in their accidental Hobbitish. In their harshly graceful movement, in their beautifully closed faces, and in their cold, cold eyes. Bilbo doesn’t think these Mirkwood elves could love these dwarves any less than they do.

  _(Wouldn’t be wise to get on their bad side, yes.)_

 Even the least distasteful-seeming of them seem distantly curious at the most and best.

 For just a moment, Bilbo thinks he sees one of two elves quietly amused by Kíli’s earnest attempts at flirtation with one of them. However, on the opposite hand, the blond elf at the head of their small line has a scowl that deepens every time the young prince opens his mouth. Perhaps it’s more of a “two steps forward, three steps back” sort of amusement.

  _(Don’t want them to find you. Who knows what they’ll do?)_

 Bilbo wishes he knew where the elves are leading the Company. By the look of the blond leader of the patrol, the dwarves are headed off the nearest cliff, but Bilbo is almost certain that elves wouldn’t do that sort of thing. They’re elves, right? Immortal and wise and just.

_(Hah.)_

 Elves don’t _do_ things like that. They don’t.

  _(Oh, they would. They really would. That and so much more.)_

 At the very least, wherever they’re headed, the forest seems to be slowly growing less… twisted. Colour leeches back into the trees and sunlight spills through the leaves for what feels like the first time in a season. The plants look healthier, fuller, less horribly sick and growing happily. There’s a warmth to the air again and freshness to the breeze.

 The soundless song on the gusts is still eerie, however. Distant, otherworldly, and sharp where Rivendell’s elvish song seemed smoother.

  _(Maybe you should turn back. These elves seem dangerous.)_

 Despite his apprehension, Bilbo doesn’t want to be separated from the Company again. He’s just a lonesome hobbit, yes, but what if they need his help? Actions speak louder than words. The Company has stuck by him, so Bilbo will stick by them, come giant spiders or high waters.

 Please, let there be no more giant spiders, though. Really, there’s no need for more.

 Another reason, perhaps, that Bilbo is reluctant to run back into the woods.

  _(They’re too sharp, these elves. Sharp ears, sharper eyes, still-sharper blades. They’ll find you.)_

 The elves finally lead the Company to a sunny, almost glowing forest glade, apparently on the cusp of autumn at the heart of the harvest season. Massive trees curved around a massive gate wait before them, and open smoothly as they approach.

 In a bit of wine-fuzzed memory, the contents of one of the books from Rivendell informs Bilbo that this… this _glorious, grown_ structure is the gateway to the centre of the Woodland Realm, the Court of the Elfking.

  _(Run. Run now. Hide yourself. Hide the ring. Run, run, **run.** ) _

 Bilbo scurries across the bridge after the Company, holding his breath as he passes the blond patrol leader, who snaps around and searches the woods as though having heard something suspicious. Bilbo somehow manages to slip past the elf unnoticed, barely making it through the closing gates before the long-legged elf. It makes Bilbo both less and more confident for whatever waits ahead.

 That felt close. Too close by far.

 What is he doing?

  _( **Run.** Hide! Hide the p **reci** ous from the na **st** y **elf** ses.) _

 …What?

  _(…)_

 This damn forest, Bilbo _swears._

 ~

 Bilbo said it before and he’ll say it again:

 An arsehole is an arsehole is an arsehole, and Thorin bloody, ass-stubborn, I’m better-than-you, elf-hating, uncompromising Oakenshield is an arsehole. Bilbo sort of regrets following the Company into the throne room because watching this sort of thing is kind of embarrassing.

 Bilbo fully understands – well, no, not really, but he’s sure he could understand it if _someone_ would just give him a thorough explanation with visual aids for once – that Thorin hates the Elfking and has good reasons for hating the Elfking. Bilbo is a _gentlehobbit._ He can, with some effort, understand never speaking to someone for thirty years solely because of their atrocious taste in floral pastels.

 However, Thorin really can’t keep his mouth closed or be diplomatic enough to have the Company _not_ be locked up in the dungeons of the Woodland Realm? Really? _Really?_ If Bilbo can get through a Yule dinner without murdering _or_ punching across the mouth a single family member – much less the dozen of them who fully deserve it – then surely Thorin could wrangle up _some_ fake simpering for the Elfking.

 King Thranduil is terrifying, by the way.

 The Elfking moves in a way that Bilbo has never seen before, graceful and smooth and seamless, but also too sharp and too fast or too slow and too… like he doesn’t care about _anything._ His Hobbitish is broken, nowhere near as broken as Gollum, but his movements are so unnatural. Like the Rivendell elves if they just _didn’t give a damn._

 What little Hobbitish does remain is accidental, of course, and all of it manages to be awful. There are some terribly cruel insults, along the lines of, “Be a dear and go die somewhere quietly, would you?” Then there are some statements of complete apathy, like, “Excuse you, did you say something? Never mind, I’ll just cease pretending to remember you exist.” Else, there’s hateful rage that is masked terrifying well until it’s sharply revealed, and Bilbo doesn’t dare repeat it.

 King Thranduil clearly has as much unfinished business with the dwarves as the dwarves have unfinished business with him. The pale, terribly tall elf also, apparently, has some strong opinions on the matter of dragons and related unfinished business that Bilbo thinks should also be focused upon.

 How in the _bloody hills_ does someone do that with their _face?_

 Bilbo sticks around the throne room even after the dwarves are escorted out, blocked from following due to the entrance of some guards and return of the blond patrol leader. Bilbo figures he’ll just wait a bit so he won’t be discovered trying to squeeze by – he’d rather not have his own interrogation with King Thanduil, thanks – and tells himself that it might be useful to listen in for more information.

 It might be, but it isn’t, as Bilbo doesn’t speak more than a few stumbling words of Elvish. In hindsight, it doesn’t really make any sense for elves to speak any kind of common tongue in privacy. Bilbo feels the fool for thinking they would when he knows that hobbits discuss much of their secret and important business in Hobbitish. Of course elves speak Elvish to each other!

 Sindarin? Quenya? Bilbo doesn’t know enough to tell the difference.

 The invisible, _idiot_ hobbit, who is understanding nothing, gets to witness the blond patrol leader have an orc brought in. Where they got an orc is _not_ explained? Then another interrogation is performed; King Thranduil demands information from the orc in the Common Tongue, but the orc replies with an ugly, guttural language of grunts and hisses.

 Bilbo doesn’t know what the Elfking learns from the orc (his questions are sort of weird), but is as shocked as the patrol leader seems to be when King Thranduil finishes the questioning by suddenly – almost _casually,_ almost _boredly_ – slicing off the orc’s head. The disgusting head hits the ground at the other elf’s feet, and Bilbo stares in horror as the orc body slumps to the floor with a wet thump.

 The beautiful, pristine, untouchable Elfking looks at it like he’s never seen something so uninterestingly in his long, immortal life.

 Bilbo is _terrified._

  _(You well should be. Horrible, hypocritical things, elves.)_

 The patrol leader speaks to the king in quick, clipped Elvish, and the dismissive king drawls back in unimpressed tones in the same tongue. For a moment, the Hobbitish between them makes Bilbo wonder… it almost seems… that pale shade of hair is similar enough… that these two might be parent and child, or elder and younger brother, or family of some kind or another.

 The younger elf – and he must be younger, because he looks it in all the ways that matter – for that moment, before icy coolness shudders back into place on his clear and handsome face, impossibly lonely and sad and crushed like only someone who cares can be.

 If that relationship exists, however, the Elfking still leaves the patrol leader with nothing more than some curt Elvish and a swish of elaborately-patterned, shimmering robes. The blond patrol leader is left in the throne room with a decapitated orc corpse bleeding onto the wooden floor and, unknowingly, a fear-struck hobbit who silently scampers away as quick as his hairy feet can carry him with his frantic heart beating quicker still.

 Bilbo doesn’t look back.

 ~

 In an achievement that is not Bilbo’s proudest, it takes him two days to find the Company in their elvish cells. In his defence, this is a perfectly acceptable and understandable amount of time to navigate a place when the Woodland Realm is a _maze_ of swirling roots and stretching branches.

 None of Mirkwood’s sickness is evident here and while this place is undeniably elvish, it’s nothing like the city of the Hidden Valley. Rivendell was white marble bones, clear blue skies, rushing crystal water, and green everywhere. The Woodland Realm is made of twisting wooden veins, scattered sunlight over fiery leaves, cool stone in rough curves, and warm shadows stretching deep underground.

 Without the sky, it starts to all look the same after the end of the first hallway for Bilbo.

 Half the bloody trouble is finding somewhere to sleep for the night and a source of food and water. While Bilbo would like to say that he searched relentlessly, day and night, he couldn’t fight his own drowsiness and the gnawing hunger and biting thirst for long. His head already aches enough from the rushing world that the golden ring creates; he has to keep the bauble on all the time to evade the sharp-eyed, sharp-eared, pale Mirkwood elves, becoming famished or overtired won’t help him avoid them.

 Thankfully, the Company’s being kept together – although in separate cells – along a long, empty dungeon hallway. Fortunately still, all the dwarves appear no worse for the wear and wait.

 When Bilbo first walks invisibly in, Bofur is even leading some sort of singing word game that sounds like jolly good fun, except how it mostly involves calling the elves some Hobbitish-worthy names. The only Company members not wholeheartedly involved are (unsurprisingly) Thorin, who is brooding, and (surprisingly) Fíli and Kíli, who are having a passionate argument over in what situation it is acceptable to flirt with your enemies from their separate cells.

 Well… it’s nice to see that their two days of captivity haven’t changed them in the slightest.

 There’s some sort of sudden tightness in Bilbo’s chest area, a kind of squeezing around his lungs and heart. Damn feelings and emotional investment. Bilbo knew he shouldn’t have spent all that time along the Mirkwood path listening to the dwarves’ many exuberant stories, both the humorous and the slightly heart-breaking ones, full of joy and hardship and love and life.

 He really should have gotten out while he still could, except… he really doesn’t regret it at all.

 Bilbo eagerly rips the ring off his finger _(No, wait-)_ , stuffs it in his coat pocket, and steps into view of the Company’s cells. He can’t quite keep the beaming grin off his face and the dwarves catch sight and him, and beams harder still for the warm feeling of their cheerful, whooping greeting.

 Bilbo goes from cell to cell, individually exchanging banter with each dwarf and checking to see that they’re alright, letting them see that he’s quite alright himself. Bifur and Bofur clap his shoulders. Dwarf tussles his hair. Balin clasps their arms together. Kíli tries to hug him through the bars and Fíli shakes Bilbo’s hand in a way that feels like a hug in itself. Dori tuts over the state of him and fiddles with Bilbo’s clothing. Óin grumbles over the state of Bilbo himself, moving the hobbit’s limbs this way and that.

 The hobbit goes through Bombur (who thinks he doesn’t eat enough), Glóin (who sings his praises), Nori (who demands to know Bilbo’s tricks), and Thorin (who looks _happy_ to see him) in a rush of welcome. So quickly that Bilbo doesn’t notice he’s been _returning_ a few of the dwarves’ gestures until he gives Ori’s hand a reassuring pat and realizes that – unless he moves his pinky just half-an-inch to the left, which he does – he nearly told the quiet young dwarf that he was very sorry for the loss of Ori’s third wife.

 Killed in a pig stampede sort of accident. Terrible tragedy.

 For several seconds, Bilbo is horrified with himself. He recalls hands being shaken and shoulders clasped, and he can’t remember whether he managed to do all of it as the Proper Ways dictated was appropriate. Bilbo _probably_ kept his Hobbitish respectful and Proper, given that it’s second-nature to him now, but it hadn’t mattered in the slightest in the moment and _what if he didn’t?_

 Bilbo’s pretty much agreed with himself that Hobbitish is useless on this quest, so maybe… maybe… maybe it doesn’t really matter? It’s the way things should be, but does it really _matter?_ He’s thinking big now, not small – he’s already stopped listening to other people’s Hobbitish. Would it matter much if he ceased using it as well? Well, it’s second-nature, but it wouldn’t matter much if he had a few accidents now and again, right?

  _It isn’t as though anyone will know, anyway. There really are more important things about._

 Like the fact that now having found the Company, Bilbo has reached the extent of his planning for the future. He now has to find a way to get them out of their elvish prison essentially on his own.

 Oh, that’s going to be so much work.

 Bilbo’s walked so much already. Ugh. Why.

 These quests need to have less difficult, life-threatening stuff and more things that Bilbo actually likes, is qualified for, and is comfortable with. A long shot for quests, yes, but Bilbo will have his fantasies how he likes and he won’t hear any different for them. Maybe he’ll start a committee on the matter when he gets home, somewhere between the song about pillows and the dissertations on why adventures are a terrible idea. Just watch him.

 This new task – thank you for the revelation, Thorin, about having to do what really should be your job – does a wonder of ruining the happy reunion. Well done there. Every dinner party needs a downer and that’s why they invited _you,_ you arsehole.

 Bilbo’s never invited Thorin’s anywhere, though, which should be pointed out for the record’s sake.

 Still, even with the looming future, it’s nice to see people and be together again. The Company needs to stop getting separated like this, it’s almost as bad as the fleeing. (Every time it happens Bilbo somehow just ends up _fonder_ of the dwarves. How.) Although, Bilbo would probably happily accept things if the getting separated and the fleeing stopped happening at the same time. That’d be nice.

 Oh, look, Bilbo’s standards are just lowering everywhere today. He isn’t even mad about it, he’s so glad that everybody’s okay. He’s not even bothered about the lack of mad, his heart is so full of fuzzy, tingly warmth and emotions, or how he’s grinning like a fool about it all.

 Perhaps he’s a bit bothered about the grinning like a fool bit, actually. It’s apparently giving the dwarves the impression that Bilbo is okay with or actually able to organize a prison break.

 Well, there’s a first time for everything. It fits with the theme of today.


	11. At Least You Tried

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The barrels operation was a bad idea from the get-go, but noooo, the dwarves had to actually go with the idea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is... the beginning of where the funny found the sad and didn't let go. It doesn't cheer up again until chapters 15 and 16, so if you want to hold off until the last two chapters are up, that's perfectly fine.

He’s lost it.

 If the high society of Hobbiton ever finds out even a tenth of his behaviour, Bilbo will be chased out of town by a properly-pitchfork-wielding, exceedingly-well-mannered mob. Except, that’s a bit too much work for high society hobbits. He’s more likely to be violently shunned. Perhaps the “common” Shirelings could be convinced to chase him out, given that they’d probably be equally horrified and much more willing to reach for the Proper mob tools.

 Yes, there’s even Hobbitish and Proper Ways for all a hobbit’s pitchfork-wielding mob needs in the Shire. Only the hills know why by this point. A lot of stuff from home sort of seems like hobbits just got _really bored_ to Bilbo now, or needed some way to make certain hobbit “better” than other hobbits.

 No one else seems to have time for anything like Hobbitish. Too busy surviving. Except maybe the elves, but clearly even the immortal people have better things to do with themselves.

 See… Bilbo hasn’t really been paying attention to the Proper Ways for the last little bit. He’s been going through some instinctual motions, sure, but he hasn’t actually bothered to check the placement of his hands in comparison with his elbows or if his chair is angled accurately or if he’s taking the correct number of steps and tilting his head exactly so. Hobbitish, as Bilbo realized a long time ago but somehow managed to ignore, is exhausting, and he hasn’t been making sure that he’s going it _just_ right.

 It started in the dungeons of the Woodland Realm. Bilbo’s bones ached from sleeping in corners, he was constantly hungry from only sneaking food here and there, and his head hurt from thirst and invisibly wandering around caves trying to find _some_ method of escape. Slowly but surely, while searching for that escape, since he _was_ invisible, Bilbo started to shave off certain details of Hobbitish.

 No one could see him, anyway, so what did it matter?

 For the record, the method that he used to get himself and the dwarves out of the Woodland Realm’s maze of a palace and awful forest… he’s had better ideas.

 While scrabbling desperately to hold onto the barrels and keep them reasonably together in the river rapids, Bilbo had even wondered if “running headfirst at a rock wall and hoping really hard that it would cease being solid” might have been a better idea. He can’t even swim, for the hills’ sake. The barrels operation was a bad idea from the get-go, but _noooo,_ the dwarves had to actually go with the idea.

 During the chaotic barrel ride, Bilbo had gotten bumped and thumped and tossed about while trying his damnedest not to drown. By the end of it: his clothes were soaking wet and ruined, his body was going to be black and blue later, he’d bashed his shoulder between two smashing barrels, and his hands were bruises and full of splinters. It made getting the barrels open much harder, especially Properly.

 The operation, bad from start to finish, ended with Bilbo sitting miserably in the mud and the dwarves emptying their stomachs into the nearest shrub, often while cursing heartily between bouts of retching.

 It stung a bit when the Company started going on about what a terrible idea the barrels were, because while they weren’t wrong, it still worked. Bilbo feels that given his circumstances and resources, he could have managed much worse ideas. Admittedly, he’s not sure how, but he’s sure he could have managed it somehow. He’ll get back to the concept later if anything interesting pops up for a beginning part of the idea. The end part is fairly fixed, thought. All of Bilbo’s worse ideas end in them being dead and headless courtesy of the immaculate and terrifying Elfking. That seems worse.

 As Bilbo twinged whenever he moved and his shoulder hurt like an open bite whenever someone touched it, his struggles with Hobbitish continued in silence. When Óin finally got the opportunity to examine the Company burglar, the dwarf nearly managed to _audibly_ frown in disapproval. Óin practically frog-marched the soaking wet hobbit to the town on the lake, and Bilbo forgave himself any Hobbitish mistakes in favour of warding off any more pain.

 It went downhill… or perhaps, _downriver…_ from there.

 ~

 The Laketown of Esgaroth is… grimy. That’s the best word Bilbo can think of to describe it, besides perhaps “frigid” or “bad”. It’s hard to sum up his feelings for a town in a single word when it’s _built_ on a substance that Bilbo can’t survive in and recently had a terrible experience with.

 At least Bilbo doesn’t have to spend much time looking at the town or touching much of anything, or contemplating the sheer amount of water too close by. Bilbo spends the majority of their time in Laketown safely under a blanket, next to a fire, inside a house, being blissfully unconscious – all on Óin’s strict orders. The dwarves feast and bargain, and Bilbo enjoys doing absolutely nothing for the first time in months – sleeping and having his food brought to him and downing unknown substances at the behest of the Company healer – and Bilbo finds himself spending quite a lot of time… thinking.

 He has strong thoughts about never stepping into another body of water for as long as he lives. The only swimming he’s going to be doing in the future is none, or that takes place in a shallow bathtub with nice-smelling soap and fluffy towels for afterwards. He has some rather choice and horribly rude things to say on the subject of rivers and lakes now, and none of it is even remotely appropriate by _any_ definition, even by hobbit standards.

 Bilbo also has strong thoughts about how he somehow managed to go from concluding that Hobbitish probably wasn’t _that_ important to having his own start to deteriorate.

  _(Mm. Slippery slopes. Lovely things.)_

 The deterioration isn’t really his fault, though. He didn’t mean to stop communicating Properly. It just… happened.

 Bilbo tripped down those damn, twisting, uneven Woodland staircases that didn’t have railings – hobbits don’t usually have a need for stairs, but when they do, they _have fucking railings,_ what is _wrong_ with elves – and then his hands were getting shaky in the cold dungeon drafts. So, Bilbo started accidentally saying some rather rude or nonsensical things in Hobbitish while he limped about and while his hands trembled. So what?

 It wasn’t his fault. It isn’t his fault. He shouldn’t have to hurt to be respectable.

 ~

 A few days later, as they’re leaving the Laketown for the Lonely Mountain, Bilbo has some more strong thoughts. If he has to choose between 1) keeping to the Hobbitish and the Proper Ways, despite no one caring or understanding, despite the pain and strain on his shoulder as he lowers himself into the boats they’ve been lent, or 2) carefully accommodating his bumps and bruises and thus telling the boat (in Hobbitish) to go fornicate with a chicken and that it has the complexation of a toad made of oatmeal… well…

 Bilbo has never really liked boats anyway.

 He’s a little – more than a little – upset with himself though, honestly.

 Firstly, because of his weak ankle, scratched-up hands, bruised shoulder, and more, he is physically incapable of comfortably adhering to perfect Hobbitish and the Proper Ways that he’s been speaking and following all his life. It’s unbelievably frustrating.

 Why, just drinking a cup of tea after first arriving in Esgaroth was a difficulty! He couldn’t perform any of the dips, taps, turns, tilts, swirls, or other complicated and intricate movements that make of Hobbitish. He just wanted to drink his damn tea, but the shame had been terrible.

 How unfair it all was! How unfair the Proper Ways were to the sick and injured!

 Secondly, Bilbo has _never noticed_ how unfair Hobbitish was before and now he feels like an arsehole for it. Bloody hills, he’s been such a lucky bastard to be able to _do_ Hobbitish – over-complicated and demanding language that it is. He can’t recall himself ever paying any attention to the unfairness of such a physical and careful language of gestures, or even caring if he had noticed.

 Didn’t his Aunt Belba’s son Herugar once break a limb and had to either stay home in confinement or wear the most hideous shade of greenish-yellow? Just to let people know he was injured and therefore unable to communicate in proper Proper Hobbitish? That had been massively unfair.

 And Bilbo’s paternal grandmother, Mungo Baggins? Bilbo _knows_ that the hobbit man, before his death, had been simultaneously having some sort of chronic pain and distancing himself from people and society. Upon reflection, Bilbo wonders with certain dread if those two things were much more connected than his young self remembers them to be.

 Physical disabilities and people come to mind now, too many to mention.

 Why has Bilbo never noticed? He’s so relieved to be healing and be almost properly Proper again by the time that they leave that he’s more than a little disgusted with himself. There are many people back home who can’t heal their wounds with time, or at all, and the Proper Ways are unforgivably _brutal_ to them. He’s such a self-centred little bore, isn’t he?

 Who decided what was _Proper_ and what wasn’t, anyway?

 At least Bilbo managed to get all his friends out of that horrible elvish dungeon and they’re on their way to the Lonely Mountain. The Company is excited – all aflutter and it shows in their faces and the energy in their fingertips – and Bilbo can’t help but be excited too. He’ll just keep trying his best, and worry about his silly language and confusing culture later! They’ve almost made it!

 Oh, hills, they’ve almost made it. He thinks he might be sick.

 ~

 Usually Bilbo freezes when he’s surprised or scared or shocked. Most hobbits do, it keeps them from saying anything _Improper_ in Hobbitish when their wits go running from them. But now? Now, the gentlehobbit is standing alone in a dark passageway inside the Lonely Mountain and shaking slightly.

 The trembling in his scratched fingers and the crawling feeling going down his spine only increase with each step he takes, slowly moving towards that golden light reflected on the wall at the end of the passage. Halfway there, he forcibly stops himself from shaking – a common, well-trained-in-the-Proper-Ways hobbit still. It mostly works.

 He’s a hobbit and apparently a burglar also, he should be brave and not shake even when he’s _completely beyond terrified._ He can do this. There’s really nothing to worry about.

  _(Besides a dragon. An actual dragon that breathes dragonfire.)_

 Well, yes, besides the dragon.

 But it’s just… it’s just… oh hills… just a _dragon._ A fire-breathing, man-eating, clever and greedy and jealous beast of legend, who’s slaughtered thousands for this hoard and would slaughter more just for fun, then many more to keep its gold. Just a dragon, indeed.

 Just peachy. What could go wrong about this?

  _(So much. So, so much. Literally everything.)_

 Well, yes, but Bilbo is trying to be optimistic about this.

  _(You’re terrible at it. Run away now before you die of dragonfire.)_

 Hmm, it seems Bilbo took Bofur’s teasing about Smaug being a furnace with wings more seriously than he thought he did, what with this fixation on fire. It does make sense though. Bilbo has no desire to fulfil any incineration clauses on his contract, for a great many, very good reasons.

 Then again, Bilbo’s nearly been burned a great many times on this journey. Fire isn’t that scary.

  _(Not fire. **Dragon** fire. Much, much, **much** worse. The inside of a dragon broils like molten rock; its breath is many times hotter than regular fire could ever be. Hot enough to melt stone.) _

 Oh, dear.

  _(Rumoured to be hot enough to melt a ring of power. Run away **now.** ) _

 Bilbo… Bilbo did not… did not actually know that…?

  _(…)_

 Bloody hills, he wishes he’d spent more of his time in Rivendell sober so that he could remember what book he’d read that it. It makes sense that he’d try to read about dragons, given that their quest focused on _stealing from_ and _possibly killing_ one. Maybe if he just stands here and thinks for a bit, instead of going in there, he’ll be able to remember some other, much more useful fact about dragons from the book he must have read.

  _(Facing one is idiocy. Run.)_

 Bilbo was thinking more about the lines of how to kill one with minimum effort as a useful fact. Running is just common sense that he doesn’t get to pay attention to right now. Yes, he wishes that he could run for it, but he’s got to clear his head and brace his britches and steady his hands, because he signed a contract and he actually – oh, _so_ foolishly – cares about these dwarves now.

 Anyway, this gentlehobbit-turned-hired-burglar has shit to steal. He hasn’t the time for two-sided conversations for one. Bilbo is fairly certain that’s a sign of something terrible.

 Just look at that horrible Gollum creature.

  _(…)_

 Now, Bilbo’s got to get moving. Here he goes.

 Yep, down the hallway which is becoming unfairly shorter the farther he goes. It should stop that.

 Oh, wait, what is he stealing again? The really, really, fancy rock-thing, right? Arkenrock? Arkenshard? No, Arken _stone._ That sounds right. Arkenstone. He’s here to steal the Arkenstone.

  _(Hopeless.)_

 Shut up.

~

 Smaug is fearsome and _wicked._  

 He’s enormous – too large to put into something as small as Hobbitish – and his armour of jewels glints wickedly in the darkness. He’s terrifying and his teeth, horrifyingly white, glint even _more_ wickedly as faint orange light seems to be waiting at the back of his massive throat. He’s clever, much cleverer and more cunning and devious than Bilbo ever expected a beast to be, and _wickedly so._

 Bilbo – while he riddles and sneaks and banters and teases and dodges – slowly comes to the horrified realization that he is deeply, completely out of his league. In fact, this was all fairly forgone from the moment that the hobbit and the dragon exchanged words.

 It’s most evident at the end, though, as the orange light at the back of the dragon’s throat grows brighter and his jewelled belly swells with glowing wrath, that Bilbo – running for his life because he just pissed off a dragon, _he just pissed off a dragon,_ and _oh fucking shit, dragonfire_ – never really stood a chance.

~

 The Laketown of Esgaroth is burning.

 This isn’t how things were supposed to go. Bilbo doesn’t know how things were supposed to go, but he knows that taunting and exchanging barbs with a dragon, and the sending of a flying, fiery beast of death towards hundreds of innocent people isn’t it. Oh… oh, what has he _done?_

  _(An impressive amount of damage and chaos for something of your size.)_

 Bilbo had _known_ that he wasn’t qualified for this! For any of this! He knew it from the beginning! He was a Proper-Hobbitish-speaking, Proper-Ways-following, unworldly gentlehobbit before he agreed to this madness. All he is now is a badly-Hobbitish-speaking, Proper-Ways-ignoring, unworldly gentlehobbit with a weak ankle, a bad shoulders, cuts, bruises, and slightly burned feet who fancied himself a heroic burglar fit for riddling with a dragon, and set that dragon on an entire town instead.

 Oh, hills… oh… those poor people.

 And it’s even almost _pretty_ – just a little – the glowing orange lights in the middle of the wide, dark lake in the night. Even Smaug had looked beautiful from a distance as he swooped down from the skies and his great belly glowed with broiling dragonfire. Like a falling star, before he wreaked his breath on the burning Laketown once more.

 It’s Esgaroth that seems small from this distance, but Bilbo feels smaller. He spent so long being so concerned with himself and completely unimportant shit, and now… Bilbo feels foolish and useless and self-centred and stupid. He feels idiotic and irrelevant and petty and frivolous. He’s never felt so small in all his life and it’s not even about him.

 For such a person of such small stature and surely small mind as well – given the evidence – Bilbo can apparently cause a great amount of damage and pain. Well done, him.

  _(…Just said that.)_

 And then… oh.

  _(What?)_

 Smaug is _falling._

 


	12. Miserable Burglar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dragon is dead and nothing is better. It might even be worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please remember that Bilbo is an entirely Unreliable Narrator.

The dragon is dead and nothing is better. It might even be worse.

 There’s something wrong with the Company. There’s something dreadfully, terribly, definitely wrong with the Company. They’re all acting so ridiculously and they’re all _alive_ and Bilbo simultaneously feels like he should be laughing for joy and sobbing in anguish. Perhaps he should simply cower in a corner and not move, because there’s something really, really wrong with his friends.

 He _should_ be laughing at their antics though, because they’re funny and they’re all alive when he knows they really shouldn’t be. The dwarves are all stumbling around, joking, singing, and celebrating like happy drunks and smokers, on a high of their own survival. It’s funny.

 Bofur is trying to balance twelve different tiaras on his head (where he found those is impossible to guess among this _sea_ of gold). It’s hilarious, especially because he’s also communicating in Hobbitish that Balin’s flowery blouse makes the old dwarf look bloated, that he has complicated feelings on what constitutes public indecency, and he’s basically doing what is the equivalent of a saucy, seductive wink in the direction of the Company’s cooking pot.

 The old cooking pot, that is. They’re using a new cooking pot now, one that seems to be gold and rimmed with diamonds for some reason. Or they would be using if Óin and Glóin hadn’t put off making a fire in favour of appreciating a pile of pearl and gem necklaces.

 Bilbo’s had to rescue the past four meals from burning, because the cook just wandered off. The last time the Company ate well was when it was Fíli’s turn to cook, and now Fíli looks torn between not wanting to have to cook _every_ meal and making sure that he and his brother actually get to eat. Most of the rest of them have been too busy celebrating with their gold instead of celebrating with food. Not that they have much food left, anyway.

 Bilbo misses Shire celebrations and Shire parties. Hobbits know how to celebrate things right, like with meals with courses that only stop when the guests have to physically roll themselves out or pass out right at the table. Hobbits don’t… stare creepily at piles of gold like there’s nothing else they’d rather be doing, not even keeping themselves alive. Or wear a tower of tiaras and then unknowingly try to seduce a sauce-pot, as the case may be, instead of making supper.

 Then again, Bofur, especially a drunk one, would definitely knowingly do those things… so it’s not really that strange. Bilbo is probably over-thinking things again. He’s just tired and hungry and slightly paranoid because of the thing in his pocket that he’s desperately trying not to think about.

  _(The ring? Really, do not worry yourself with such a trinket.)_

 Yes, of course, the ring! Definitely _not_ the bloody, glowing, royal stone-thing in his pocket that looks like crystallized starlight, feels as dangerous as dragonfire, and is apparently worshipped by the dwarves as a sign of divine favour. It’s of _course_ the _ring_ that’s at the top of his head at the moment!

  _(…)_

 Bloody hills, Bilbo needs to get a good night’s sleep. There’s nothing but dust, gold, and bones in this shadowy mountain. It’s not great for his peace of mind or his sleep schedule.

 The dwarves talked so much about the home they lost or had never gotten to have, so Bilbo would have personally thought they would want to see more of it besides the dragon’s bedroom – treasure hoard – whatever. That’s what Fíli and Kíli went to go do. Why can’t the rest of the them follow Fíli and Kíli’s example? Goodness, Bilbo never thought he’d say those words before, that’s frightening.

 Anyway, why can’t the Company do something besides… practically swim in gold and jewels, laughing like they’re mad?

 Or something besides sit on a broken stone throne, presiding over a dead kingdom of shining metal like their esteemed Company leader has been doing. At least, when Thorin isn’t admiring the golden sea like it’s beyond all wonder and beauty – like there’s nothing more important in the world than the gleam and shine of a dead kingdom’s gold.

 Bilbo’s scratched, bruised hands are shaking again, it must be colder in this mountain than he thought. He really has taken too many falls and injuries on this quest. This trembling keeps happening and it’s harder and harder to stop each time. Bilbo’s friends are likely just all caught up in having succeeded on their quest, certainly a good reason to be happy and celebrate! He shouldn’t be shaking.

 Even if it has been a few days now.

 Even if there no more Laketown on the lake. Even if Esgaroth burned and they have no idea how many of its people survived and it is sort of their fault. Even if a town full of innocent men, women, and children died or almost died, and the dwarves don’t seem very willing to acknowledge it or dwell on it.

 Reclaiming Erebor is absolutely a reason to celebrate! Bilbo’s friends deserve this. They’ve worked so hard for it. Bilbo’s worrying for nothing.

  _(So why is their most precious thing still hidden away in your pocket?)_

 Bilbo just hasn’t found a good moment to give it to Thorin, that’s all. There are certain Proper Ways of doing this sort of thing, how presents and gifts should be given. Bilbo’s got to be careful about doing this Properly, lest he end up increasingly married or adopted or something, not that he’s been keeping to or been bothered by that sort of thing lately…

 The hobbit just hasn’t found a good time for it, really. He’ll give the odd-feeling thing over in a bit, when he’s calmed down and feels less unnerved about this whole place. Really, he will.

  _(Will you really?)_

 ~

 Bilbo really would have returned the Arkenstone, only he hasn’t calmed down and he feels only more unnerved than before. Sort of like there’s a dragon whose sole job is to loom over his head and breathe invisible flames to make him sweat. Bilbo doesn’t perform well when stressed, and he has a shining sign of sovereignty in one pocket and a magical ring in the other, and he’s trapped in a mountain of death and gold.

 Well, not actually trapped, but…

 Something’s changed. A lot of somethings have changed. Sometimes it seems like the Company’s become a completely new group of people, they’ve changed so much. For example: all their gestures have gotten sort of… not mean, but… odd?

 Everything they’ve communicated has… changed tone. There are still marriage proposals and invitations to tea in Hobbitish, just in between some rather heavy accusations and scornful insults in Hobbitish and… something else. Bilbo’s new understanding of dwarfish body language really isn’t doing him any favours here, it keeps interrupting his reading of their Hobbitish and everything about it is suggesting he should run – as far away and as fast as possible.

 On one hand, Hobbitish says that Nori stroking that axe is a confession of poor dancing skills. On the other hand, everything else says that Nori is dearly aching to use that axe on someone. Bilbo doesn’t really care to find out which is right.

 Also, aloud, the Company has been saying some things lately, to him and to each other, that have been kind of terrifying. Just little jokes between each other that would probably get the Hobbiton mayor and several heads of families and the Thain called in if this was back in the Shire. Especially since they’re saying such horrible insults and threats _aloud,_ with their mouths and heard by ears (and ear trumpets).

 Naturally, Bilbo doesn’t have room to talk about physical altercations over petty matters, but surely it isn’t really so important who gets that specific necklace of gems or whatever. There’s no need to throw fists around like that. Admittedly, for all Bilbo knows, that particular necklace has great cultural or familiar significance and is definitely worth almost tearing each other’s limbs off for. Either way, Bilbo can’t exactly afford to get between dwarves when they go at it, crashing into piles of gold and shouting rude observations all the way.

 The Company’s been insulting him a lot. It’s not that strange, Bilbo’s sure they did so a lot when they quest first started out, them belittling him for their own amusement. It even started small enough for Bilbo to think it was a joke, but now he’s not quite so sure. They keep asking how much interest Bilbo has in their gold, then laughingly insulting him and all hobbits when Bilbo professes he has no interest in their treasure. Bilbo, of course, can’t claim to be an expert on the nuances of dwarf humour.

 Basically, it goes, with minimal paraphrasing: “Hahah, hobbits don’t care much about gold, so foolish, right? Which is good, because we’d probably have to chop your hands off if you were skimming off the top, hahah. Our gold, got it? Good. Hah. Hobbits and their love of gold, amiright?”

 Bilbo can admit a fondness for the mithril shirt that Thorin gave him though – as horribly inappropriate in Hobbitish as the festure was. That just shows the Company isn’t completely mad over their treasure if they can share such a precious shirt, right? Even if it wouldn’t have fit anyone else in the Company.

 Even if accepting it made Bilbo’s skin crawl slightly, with the terrible feeling that he might regret it if he didn’t act grateful for the gesture. He was grateful, though, it’s a very nice shirt.

 It’s not as though the dwarves have actually been threatening him at all… at least, not _really._ They’re just terrible jokes from a side of dwarfish humour that Bilbo hasn’t seen before, and the Company is sort of stressed out because they can’t find their fancy rock and it’s making them paranoid. It’s not as if they really mean they’d do horrible things to him if they found out he has the Arkenstone or if he ran off to check on the Laketown people – they’ve only just… heavily implied it… as it bit of a laugh.

 Yeah. All in good fun.

 Except for how, even though actions supposedly speak louder than words, the Company’s words hurt a lot more than they feel they should. The Company is just joking, right? Their dismissive actions and cruel words just… How do they both sting so badly? It doesn’t feel fun.

 Bilbo’s overreacting, probably. Hobbitish says _much worse_ things regularly!

 But… this behaviour from the Company speaks to something soft and terribly vulnerable in him. Something that trembles in synchronization with his hands from the fact that the Company in general has no patience, kindness, friendship, or trust for the burglar. Some of them are alright, but they’ve been too absent to seem to matter.

 Maybe trapped is the right word after all.

 Where Bilbo has made room in his heart for his friends, his friends seem to be repaying him by lashing out. It’s painful and consuming, and it burns at his lungs in the same way that the Arkenstone feels to be burning a hole in his pocket.

~

 There’s going to be war.

 There’s going to be war because an arsehole is an arsehole is an arsehole – and Thorin bloody, ass-stubborn, I’m-better-than-you, _gold mad_ Oakenshield is an arsehole.

 Thorin is gold mad. Pretty much the _entire_ Company is gold mad and Bilbo can’t believe how long it took him to stop being in denial about that. His friends have completely lost it – Thorin especially – and Bilbo feels a bit like the only sane person in the entire Lonely Mountain. Thorin is so gone on his madness that he’s raring to fight with thirteen dwarves against the Elfking, the Elfking’s entire army, and all of Esgaroth’s remaining people over Erebor’s gold.

 There may be some dwarf army that Thorin swears is on the way, but still.

 Honestly, if the dwarves are acting the way they are because of gold madness – which Bilbo is desperately certain they must be – then the Elfking has no excuse. What the bloody hills is _wrong_ with this elf? Admittedly, perhaps King Thranduil is just being proactive, since Thorin going gold mad and hating him so much probably meant that war was inevitable.

 Early bird gets the worm and all that.

 Thorin, the gold mad King-Under-The-Mountain, seems so damn intent to wage war on the entire world – anyone and everyone. He, right now, would probably challenge all squirrels everywhere to war if a single squirrel looked at him wrong. Bilbo has an uncle who owns an orchard who did that once.

 The Elfking might do that too, actually.

 That’s the level of maturity and respect that is happening right now, Bilbo swears. Thank the hills that there aren’t any squirrels around! Just two kings who hate each other’s guts and would likely, if the other was drowning, toss their fellow king an anchor with a broad grin (Thorin) or a cool smirk (the Elfking). Because that’s much better!

 The leader of the once-Laketown, Bard the Bowman, the Dragonslayer, seems confused as to what’s happening and Bilbo can emphasize. Bard mostly just seems to want compensation for their hosting of the Company and for the Company setting a _fucking dragon_ on his people, and maybe some food and somewhere to live since the dragon destroyed those, which seems entirely reasonable.

 Unfortunately for Bard, everyone else has agreed that unreasonable is in season.

 Bilbo doesn’t really know what to do. The Shire doesn’t _have_ conflicts like this. This is beyond talks over tea and biscuits – this is really _fucking serious._ Except no one seems to be taking it at all seriously! People could die and, out of the present figures of authority, Bard is just really confused while Thorin is in a bloody pissing contest with the Elfking!

 So far, of their talks while shouting at each other over a wall, Bilbo has essentially heard:

 “Agree to the completely selfish demands that I want.”

 “Never. Agree to the completely selfish demands that _I_ want.”

 “Never. Well, since compromise is apparently impossible, I’ll see you on the morrow when we force hundreds to die over some _fucking jewelry_ and some shiny lumps of metal.”

 “Sounds fantastic. Oh, wait! Before you go, let me first insult you, your ancestors, your people, and your ex-neighbour’s wife’s aunt’s grandchild’s business partner’s sweetheart’s dog. And the dog’s lame, blind puppy too.”

 “You go too far! This is definitely war now!”

 Bard was not included in the above piece of theatre because Thorin and the Elfking are basically ignoring the man, which is stupid, because Bard probably has some of the most relevant, reasonable things to say. Unfortunately, Thorin and the Elfking are finding common sense a little _too common_ for their royal palates to tolerate at the moment.

 Forget the contract, Bilbo should have gotten out like Gandalf did when he still had the chance.

 …Even if he had, however, this would probably still be happening, since Bilbo’s opinion is valued as much as it would if he wasn’t even physically present. Anything he says is completely ineffectual at getting the dwarves to see reason and ending the approaching conflict.

  _(This is fantastic.)_

 No, it’s not.

  _(Best entertainment had in years.)_

 Shut up.

 …Wait.

  _(…)_

 Bloody hills, what _is_ that?

 That… that… oh, Bilbo doesn’t know… that feeling sometimes. Those weird, intrusive thoughts.

 He’ll have to figure them out if he lives through this.

 There has to be _something_ that Thorin values enough to stop this madness over.

  _(…)_

_(Really?)_

 Oh.

 Wait.

~

 So, Bilbo has sort of realized, just maybe, that handing the Arkenstone to Bard – he wasn’t mad enough to give it to the Elfking, oh, bloody hills, no – and then _going back_ into the Lonely Mountain was a bad idea. Unfortunately, he realized this when he was standing alongside the Company inside the Lonely Mountain as Bard was pulling out the Arkenstone to show to Thorin.

 Bilbo really needs to think about the consequences of his actions more. This quest has made him realize that it pays to be careful with your life choices. And he’s not just talking about Hobbitish.

 Thorin immediately turned on Bilbo, and Bilbo’s mind sort of went blank. Everything he was going to say – his reasoning, his explanations – was completely forgotten in the overwhelming terror and uncertainty of what was coming. Shocked and scared, Bilbo fell back on the hobbit instincts that had been trained into him when suddenly thrust into a bad situation where a single wrong statement could make everything worse. He froze.

 Going still was definitely the wrong reaction, though, just as Hobbitish and the Proper Ways have been on this entire mad quest. Bilbo really rather should have run from the mad dwarf king.

 Thorin stormed forward with a voice like rolling thunder and his eyes – glossy and insensible with gold-madness – like lightning through thick fog. Hands like stone walls grabbed Bilbo and lifted him by the shirt front and throat, so Thorin could roar all manner of insults and outrage in his face, and choke all the air from his lungs so Bilbo could do nothing but wheeze and scrabble at an arm like an iron bar.

  _(Hah. Oh dear.)_

 “MISERABLE BURGLAR,” comes the raging bellow, ringing through the haze of pain and lack of air, as Bilbo finds himself slammed against the edge of the wall. Then slammed again, and Bilbo’s bruised shoulder screams and his back howls, but there’s no air and neither hurts more than that.

  _“MISERABLE BURGLAR,”_ comes the furious cry, cutting through the daze of confusion and fear and helplessness, as Bilbo finds that the ground has disappeared and that he’s now dangling over a deathfall. Thorin has him over the wall, and through watering eyes, Bilbo can see that the dwarf will let him go.

  _(Look who’s in trou~ble now.)_

 Behind the hobbit, there’s an entire army of elves and men, but they don’t even come to mind.

 Behind Thorin, as the dwarf rearranges his grip, Bilbo gasps. He can see the Company standing behind the dwarf king. Some have angry, unforgiving expressions, while others seem wide-eyed with surprise. They mean everything.

 Bilbo wants nothing more than for one of them to _say something._ To _do something._ Actions speak so much louder than words after all. Why can’t one of them speak? Why can’t one of them charge forward in outrage and demand to know what Thorin is doing?

 Fíli and Kíli, so young and once so carefree, look horrified. They look like they want to step forward but don’t dare, don’t know what to do, don’t know what to say, don’t know how to come to grips with the idea that this might not be a nightmare. They’re Princes-Under-The-Mountain now and they look strung-up by doubt and horror.

 Ori, so very young and quiet and hopeful, has gone still and starkly pale. He too doesn’t look like he can believe what’s happening in front of him. At Thorin or Bilbo’s actions, though, it can’t be told.

 Dwalin, usually so full of anger, is as impassive as a statue, and beside him, Balin, usually so full of reason and worry, just seems resigned. Disappointed. Like he’d like to get this whole thing over with.

 Bifur is scowling. Bofur is wide-eyed with a thin frown that seems unlike him. Bombur looks pinched in the face. There is none of their usually jolliness. There’s not a shred of friendship towards Bilbo to find between them. Betrayed… yes, that’s a good word for how they look.

 Óin and Glóin are glaring. Forcefully. Disdainfully. Hatefully.

 Dori and Nori look remarkably similar for once, all furrowed brows and merciless sneers.

 None of them are _doing_ anything, and their actions speak loud and clear. Their apathy, disgust, allowance, _hate_ – these things transcend language. The lack of actions, it seems, can hurt just as badly as actions and words can. Nothing seems like it could be more excruciating, actually.

  _Were they ever friends?_ Bilbo wonders, briefly, before Thorin’s grip cuts off all his air again, and his thoughts so white and empty because the dwarf he thought was his friend is going to kill him.

  _(No. No such thing.)_

_(Farewell, Bearer Baggins.)_

_(You were quite entertaining.)_

 Then – miraculously then – there is Gandalf somewhere, with his familiar voice booming through this world of pain and missing air. There are harsh and angry words between the dwarf king and the wizard. Bilbo doesn’t really hear them, but he feels the rumble through Thorin’s fingers, and how the dwarf tightens or loosens his grip.

 Somehow, Bilbo is realized back onto firm ground.

 No, released is too soft a word. Bilbo is hauled back over the wall and sent sprawling in a single motion, tossed onto a floor of crumbling rock, and left gasping from the hurt of it and the sudden, blissful return of his ability to breathe. Hobbitish and the Proper Ways seem like a distant, forgotten memory in comparison with the need to scrabble away from the dwarf king lest Thorin change his mind and _kill him._

 Members of the Company might move towards him, but Bilbo blindly scrambles away from them too.

 He’s told to leave, imperiously, and told explicitly that no friendship of any kind will go with him.

  _“Miserable burglar,”_ comes the snarled hiss, cutting through the mindless panic and pain, as Bilbo hurries away because he knows not what else to do.

 He just wants to get _away._

  _(Oh, you lived. Pity.)_

~

 Bilbo doesn’t remember how he ends up back in the Elfking’s tent, where he handed the Arkenstone off to Bard not all that long ago. He thinks that Gandalf might have ushered him here, for some peace and quiet and time to collect himself, before going off on important wizard business.

 Thankfully, neither King Thranduil nor Bard the Dragonslayer are here, with their different but identical pitying expression. It’s too strange to be pitied by the Elfking and Bilbo doesn’t know how to handle it. The two leaders have to go deal with the arriving dwarf army, anyway, called by Thorin and belonging to Lord Dain of the Iron Hills.

 Not to mention that approaching orc army that Gandalf brought news of.

 There are more important things than an upset, shivering hobbit to worry about now.

 Bilbo’s mind is a whirl now. He can’t reason or justify anything because his thoughts refuse to stop screaming enough to be coherent. After many minutes that could have been days with how long they felt, Bilbo rises from his chair and starts moving about. He needs to move about he’ll lose what’s left of his mind, it feels like, even though his injuries pain him with every step and each memory associated with them comes to the forefront – the good and the bad, and the bad ones make the good ones bad too.

 Out of nervous agitation, Bilbo starts rearranging the tent just so he won’t have to sit still or think about things or burst into tears and sob pathetically. He _refuses_ to waste tears on those… those _dwarves!_ Besides, the Elfking’s decorating scheme is terrible and rude, and it needs fixing. So there.

 Bilbo moves chairs to the correct angles and the tables so they fit better in the space. He arranges wine pitchers and glasses into the traditional formations of the Proper Ways. He surrounds himself – he loses himself – in all the comfortable, familiar Hobbitish of home. Bilbo carefully controls his gestures and calms down, focusing on all the tiny details of nonsense, like he would if he had never gone on this stupid, awful, horrible, terrible, heart-breaking quest to begin with.

 However, through it all – no matter how hard he tries to keep from it – his hands won’t stop shaking.

 

 


	13. On the Fence of Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He hasn’t left the Elfking’s tent and yet it feels like days have passed, which can’t be a good sign of well-being.

 Time rolls by like a warped wheel that has fallen of the incomprehensibly-constructed wagon of the world, looping sadly past in an uneven spin, unable to decide upon a number of sides or how many dimensions it was existing upon.

 Time is all out of sorts, like a person without any sense of rhythm trying desperately to find it again. Unsure as to how many seconds went in a minute, and whether or not it’s weeks or years that make up a month.

 Surely not that much time can have passed, however, because the sun still sets in the normal way – without any out-of-place, improvised routines as it lowers itself down. The world steadily grows darker and Bilbo Baggins realizes that, unless he is careful, he will lose himself to the sad, triangular-maybe-square wheel of time that he’s somehow fallen into.

 He hasn’t left the Elfking’s tent and yet it feels like days have passed, which can’t be a good sign of well-being.

 The flap of the tent opens, and the young, blond patrol leader from Mirkwood steps inside, then holds the flap open so the Elfking can glide in, followed by a haggard-looking Dragonslayer, and the perpetually-grey Gandalf.

 The younger elf lets the flap fall close behind the wizard, then casts Bilbo a vaguely curious stare with rather intense eyes that, upon actual study by Bilbo by way of return stare, can’t seem to settle between brown or blue.

 The Elfking, however, isn’t at all interested in the hobbit in his tent. With his pale hair and billowing robes flowing behind him, he makes straight for the table with the pitcher of wine and goblets. He reaches for it with a disinterested air, looking towards Bard and opening his mouth to say something.

  _Except…_ as he reaches… the Elfking _misses_ the handle of the pitcher.

 Looking back towards the pitcher and frowning, the Elfking corrects himself and pours a goblet that he silently hands to Bard.  

 Bard the Bowman, now the Dragonslayer, accepts the glass and drinks from it like he would have died without a sip within the next ten seconds. He looks awfully exhausted. The man of Laketown moves to seat himself in one the tent’s chairs.

  _Except…_ he misses. Bard only doesn’t fall onto the floor because the blond patrol leader noticed and darted quickly forward to steady him.

 With a grimace and nod of thanks, Bard grasps the chair firmly and lowers himself into it carefully, rubbing at his heavy eyes with one hand.

 Cautiously, King Thranduil pours another goblet and looks about the room with a suspicious flint to his half-lidded eyes – and a faint frown to his lips. After he has poured, he turns to speak again, placing the pitcher of wine back onto the table without even looking.

  _Except…_ the base doesn’t align with the table and the pitcher will be set to empty space.

 “Ada!” the blond patrol leader cries in alarm.

 With widened eyes, the Elfking only barely manages to keep the pitcher’s curling handle in his long fingers. Still, a splash of wine is sloshed to the tent floor, barely missing the hem of King Thranduil’s beautifully embroidered robe.

 With tense shoulders and some muttered Elvish words that don’t sound especially kind, the Elfking places the pitcher carefully onto the table, watching it fiercely. He then turns to the rest of the tent.

 The patrol leader almost seems to step forward for a moment, before a bland look from his king stops him. The younger elf’s – for he surely had to be younger – eyes flickered down towards the goblet of wine. King Thranduil gives his vassal an almost-expression look, which Bilbo is certain contains a wealth of something deeply unimpressed and foreboding.

 With a faint frown of… disapproval? Bilbo thinks it is disapproval on the patrol leader’s face as he takes the seat next to Bard.

 The Elfking lifts his chin and moves across the room to seat himself in his throne-like chair, but his grace bumps into the arm of it. A quick flash of something that is definitely annoyance crosses the Elfking’s fair face, before he takes the next needed step and seems to _fold_ into the seat, pretending as though his brief moment of inelegance didn’t happen.

 Bilbo watches all of this very curiously. Their body language, he thinks, suggests that they are comfortable with one another, and their accidental Hobbitish contains nothing outrageous – well, _really_ outrageous. Bard has said a thing or two about there being ducks in his drink; the patrol leader is apparently suffering from unrequited love with a bumblebee; and the Elfking apparently can’t come to tea _ever_ because he has an appointment with his carpet whenever you have an invitation to give him.

 But that’s all really nothing new by this point.

 Bilbo should be terrified of King Thranduil, he knows, and although the elf _is_ quite terrifying, Bilbo can’t really be bothered to make the effort. That seems like a lot of work, and he no longer feels connected well-enough to everything to care. He has spent most of this quest scared out of his wits and he is, honestly, tired of it. He’ll make the effort to be fearful of the elf only if this king also decides to dangle a hobbit off a height, otherwise the Elfking seems more bark than bite.

 Bilbo’s rather more interested in their sudden bouts of clumsiness – not once did he see an elf do anything half so unplanned while in Rivendell and the Woodland Realm. And Bard the Bowman shot a dragon in flight, likely from the peak of a burning building, very recently, so it seems unlikely that he would be so uncoordinated.

 Bilbo looks beside him, to the wizard, who seated himself next to the hobbit and appears to be doing his damnedest not to burst into laughter. Gandalf’s eyes are twinkling and his moustache is twitching, and Bilbo decides that, honestly, he probably would rather not know.

 The rest of the gathering is just as odd, as Bilbo continues to remain as ignored as he expected, and everyone besides him and Gandalf keep having accidents regarding the furniture. King Thranduil tries to place his goblet on a table that isn’t within reach five times before he finally didn’t manage to catch himself in time. The goblet fell and the Elfking looked dreadfully put out for a moment.

 Bard seems to think best while pacing, but he miscalculates where a sword rack is and ends up tripping over it, and falling through the tent flap and out of the tent, face first. He came back inside a few seconds later with a new coat of dirt on his front, bad humour on his face, and plopped himself down in his chair and hasn’t gotten up since. He, at least, hasn’t dropped his goblet yet, and is quick to offer his to the Elfking when King Thranduil loses his.

 The Elfking refuses graciously and orders the patrol leader – whose name is Legolas, apparently, although King Thranduil doesn’t use it (Bard addressed him once, earlier) – to pour him a new goblet. For the briefest of moments, Bilbo wonders if Legolas will honestly throw the pitcher at his king’s head, but the elf obeys despite his regicidal feelings, obvious to even a hobbit.

 Legolas ends up stumbling into a chair, over a carpet edge, and near brains himself on a table whilst trying to bring the goblet to his king – all because of a stray footrest. Luckily, the goblet is, in a spectacular display of gymnastic ability by the elf, held aloft and not one drop is spilled.

 King Thranduil accepts it gingerly, like he’s reaching for a hot coal.

 Warily, the group discusses what is to come on the morrow.

 Due to the sheer force of frustration caused by the dwarves and elves’ problems with each other, Bard has lost it and somehow managed to bring Lord Dain of the Iron Hills over to the side of “waiting to kill each other until the orcs are no longer an issue.” Bard managed this even despite the, as gleefully reported by Legolas to Gandalf, difficulties and differences that the Elfking and the dwarf lord immediately discovered between each other.

 King Thranduil, at this, takes a sudden, deep interest in his new goblet of wine.

 Lord Dain has been given the impossible task of dealing with Thorin and the Company, but has promised that the men, elves, and dwarves will fight together tomorrow no matter whether or not the new King-Under-The-mountain agrees. The day after, it was apparently bluntly insinuated, will be a different story.

 However, Bard believes that Lord Dain was mostly keeping up appearances and would rather not die stupidly, so it’s probably not much to worry about. Relatively.

 Bilbo loses track of the conversation once they all start discussing battle plans and advantageous formations, Gandalf among them, and drifts into a comfortable space of non-thoughts until the Elfking and Bard decide they need to speak to their people about the matter.

 Rising gracefully, the Elfking hands Legolas his goblet and strides out, Bard quickly following at his embroidered hem. Legolas _very cautiously_ places the goblets on the table, nods to Gandalf, and then follows them out. He just barely manages to skip over another stay foot rest a half-second before collision, and hops and half-steps out of the tent.

 For a moment, there’s silence, until Gandalf breaks into quiet huffs of laughter. Bilbo turns his head to peer curiously at the wizard, hoping that his (likely sole) champion hasn’t finally descended into the senility and madness that Bilbo has been suspecting him of many times during their journey.

 “Dear hobbit – dear, _dear_ hobbit,” Gandalf says, eyes bright with mischief. “Though it likely brought you great comfort and calm, it was perhaps an unkind thing for you to rearrange all of Thranduil’s furniture. I find myself greatly mystified as to how you managed to move things in such a way that the room could seem mostly unchanged, and also how you moved the carpets.”

 Oh… _right._ Yes, that would explain the clumsiness.

 Bilbo glances down at the carpets beneath the furniture of King Thranduil’s luxurious tent. The Elfking travels in style apparently – full furnishing and carpet for a tent, and a splendid wardrobe besides. Bilbo has difficulty fathoming how the elves managed to move so much stuff out here so quickly, or even have the supplies they do. Either King Thranduil was preparing for this since the Company escaped his dungeons, or elves are simply very efficient, or very bored.

 “Determination,” Bilbo answers finally, on the subject of moving the carpets. “And no one being here to stop me.”

 “Indeed,” the wizard agrees, smiling. Gandalf then pulls himself from his seat and moves to the table where the almost-spilled pitcher and goblets have been left. “A glass of wine, for you?”

 “Ah. No, thank you. I couldn’t possibly.”

 Bilbo and Elvish wine get along a little too well, judging by his time in Rivendell, which he is pointedly not thinking about. He has the most wretched feeling that he’ll become a blubbering mess after a single drop, then drunkenly confess the entire affair to the Elfking – which would be horrifying – or Bard – who just doesn’t deserve that on top of everything else – or some other, embarrassing soul.

 Gandalf gauges the wine in the pitcher and pours. “Mm,” he says. “All the more for the rest of us, then.”

 Silently, Bilbo watches the wizard replace the pitcher and move back to his seat. Gandalf takes a sip and sighs in contentment, admiring the liquid in his cup with deep, weary appreciation.

 “King Thranduil always has the best taste in wine,” the wizard announces. “One could say that it is almost enough to make up for abysmal skills in social relations. Now, how are you faring, Master Baggins?”

 Bilbo winces involuntarily – a most unhobbity action, he knows, but that’s just how much the remembering of everything hurts. He puts his full concentration into not thinking of anything at all. Otherwise he’s going to remember things – anything and everything, from unexpected journeys to accidental friendships turned sour, and the horrible feeling of no air in his lungs and no ground beneath his aching feet.

 “I’ve been better,” Bilbo answers through his teeth, but he also crosses his feet just so at the ankle and shifts his shoulders slightly.

 The hobbit lets one arm run straight down the arm rest, letting the hand grip the wood tightly, while the other arm is placed perpendicular to that on the arm rest and its hand falls limply into Bilbo’s lap. His lips become a tight line and he tilts his head to one side, then down and up. He changes the angle of his legs several degrees to the right, then back left, then further left.

 This says many things, but only one thing of true importance.

  _[I’ve just had my heart broken and I wasn’t even in love.]_

 Gandalf looks politely disbelieving at the spoken answer, and watches the hobbit fidget precisely in his seat with a blander expression. Then the wizard sighs, and regards Bilbo with knowing eyes. Gandalf shifts in his seat and re-positions his wrinkled fingers along the curve of his goblet, and there are a few other small motions as well, but Bilbo is staring wide-eyed after the second because that _cannot_ be anything besides an apology.

 In _Hobbitish._

 Bilbo looks up from the wizard’s hands to his face.

 “You _complete arsehole,_ you _knew.”_

 ~

 In hindsight, Bilbo has been an enormous twit.

 After some raised eyebrows, a sputtering apology, and a refill of wine, the wizard explains.

 “Of course I _knew,_ ” Gandalf says, almost sounding insulted. “I knew your mother and your grandfather, and a great many hobbits before either of them. A very poor wizard would I be if I had not noticed _something,_ and a poorer one still had I not-”

  _[Been nosy about it?]_ Bilbo supplies, with some movement of his elbows, a very precise series of coughs, and wriggling of his toes. (It’s a very dextrous wriggle.)

 “Hush, you,” the wizard admonishes, but lightly so and with an unheated cross look. “As I was saying, I would be a poorer one still had I not sought to figure out what it was. I have been nodding my head and tipping my hat in Proper Hobbitish long before Bungo Baggins ever built Bag End, much less before _you._ ”

 “But why didn’t you _say_ something then?” Bilbo demands in exasperation, hurriedly trying to recall all the Hobbitish he ever displayed in front of the wizard.

 The occasions that he can remember don’t exactly inspire Bilbo with hope – exactly the opposite, honestly – as Bilbo has said some _very_ impolite things in the wizard’s presence. For example, he is currently remembering, with poorly hidden horror, the statement he made involving a pine tree, plumbing, and his chandelier that no one could not have taken exception to. An inner part of him is currently doing nothing but screaming nonstop.

 The _things he’s said!_

 From Gandalf’s bemused expression, the wizard can guess the shrieking state of Bilbo’s mind, but kindly doesn’t comment upon it.

 “Because, my dear friend,” Gandalf says in response to Bilbo’s question, “I did not wish to. I have a voice in fine working order and I have never liked so-called Proper Hobbitish. It is occasionally clever and terribly amusing at times, and has great potential, but I most often find it unkind in nature and generally cruel in intent.”

 The horrified screaming in Bilbo’s head is still going, without ceasing for air or rest or anything of the like, so Bilbo just ignores it and focuses on concentrating on Gandalf.

 “How do you mean?”

 Gandalf hums, swirling the wine in his goblet and peering at the level of it with suspicion. It is likely disappearing at a much faster rate than the wizard would prefer, by mysterious means that have nothing to do with him, of course. Gandalf takes another sip, entirely Improperly, disregarding Hobbitish again unless he truly feels so soul-crushingly deeply about the colour schemes of the Elfking’s interior decorating.

 “Your father was a wonderful hobbit who realized this and sought to act differently,” the wizard elaborates. “His gentleness changed dear Belladonna and Gerontius for the better by his example – such fiery tempers, they had. A more civil, respectful individual, I have never met. His Hobbitish was most tolerable.”

 Gandalf fixes Bilbo with knowing eyes once more. “You have his looks, Master Baggins, but not his temperament.”

 Bilbo fights the urge to shift uncomfortably in his seat.

 “But still,” the wizard continues, “it is a difficult and thoroughly superfluous languages in many ways. In the Shire, what is Proper is relevant only because, for no practical purpose, it is made relevant. But out in the world, away from green hills and dinner parties, it is as much nonsense as it is without sense.”

 Bilbo can… hardly argue with that. There are much more important things to worry about in this bigger world than Proper Hobbitish.

 All of Esgaroth is homeless now. They likely care little for how a meal is served so long as there is food to eat. What does the colour of one’s clothing matter so long as there is clothing to wear? Who should care about which way something should be done so long as everyone lived to see tomorrow?

 Bilbo can’t imagine anyone having the time to spare to keep to the Proper Ways while fighting for the continuation of their lives. That would just be foolish.

 Why much everything about him be so utterly foolish and _useless?_

 “As for why I did not tell you,” Gandalf says, interrupting the hobbit’s thoughts. “You needed a clean break, Master Baggins, and I believe it has been good for you.”

  _That,_ Bilbo feels, is much more debatable.

 “Besides, and know that I mean no offense as I say this, I feel that there is something terrible about a culture where one can say whatever they wish, even the meanest and cruellest of things, and it is perfectly acceptable. Hobbitish is unashamedly horrid and I never know whether or not such blatant, ridiculous malice can have any good points.

 “I have always felt,” Gandalf continues, “that if it cannot be said aloud, or for you to be held accountable for it, perhaps you had best have a look at what you are saying.”

 The hobbit stays quiet.

 “The men have a saying for it, I believe. If you cannot say something kind, then do not say anything at all.”

 “Oh, we have that too,” Bilbo says, caught with the inane need to correct this last bit.

 “Oh?”

 Bilbo nods, a horrible habit that he’s picked up over the course of this quest. “But I’m afraid we use it as reasoning as to why we should use our own unspoken language,” he reveals, “and thus… not _say_ anything at all.”

 The wizard chuckles. “Indeed. There is something to be said for free expression and discrete communication, and especially silent communication. But Bilbo, dear friend, you really must learn to watch your language.”

 The screaming in Bilbo’s head gets inconveniently more distracting as he suddenly recalls a particularly inappropriate insult on the subject of the wizard’s hat that no child should have been present for, lest all their innocence be destroyed. Oh, dear. Bilbo only defence is that he learned that one from his great-aunt, which isn’t much of a defence at all.

 “You are the crudest, most inappropriate member of the Company by far,” Gandalf says, with a faintly fond look. “As amusing as it is for me at times, I would ask you to please remember the unkind way of thinking that Hobbitish supports. Be better than petty tea-time insults, dear Bilbo, you are a bigger person than that.

 “Oh, and remember also that if you display your thoughts outside your head, you will have to face the possibility of them being read.”

 The hobbit stiffens, freezing in place. “I beg your p- How many people else-?”

 “Just me, as far as I am aware,” the wizard answers. “But as I am no omniscient, and as the world is so very large, do be careful anyway. One can never be sure of who is watching, nor of the minds of others. No matter how well we think we know a person, they can always surprise us.”

 With this last statement, Gandalf looks at Bilbo with a wealth of apology and sympathy in his eyes.

 “You have performed more admirably on this quest than I ever could have hoped for, dear Bilbo. You have held yourself with pride, dignity, and great courage, despite all you have faced. It has been my utmost pleasure to have made the acquaintance of a person as brave and loyal as you, and I pity those who are too blind to see it.”

 Bilbo’s heart leaps up his throat and hugs onto his lungs tightly, making sure to drop down and punch him in the gullet before settling back. Back come the memories always, only temporarily held at bay – of glowing stones and gleaming gold and grasping fists and mad, glinting eyes.

 “Thank you,” he manages, quietly, and something inside him feels like it _breaks._

 There is a burning at the corners of his eyes, but the hobbit ignores the welling feeling. He isn’t in possession of a handkerchief to Properly wipe away any tears, it would go against the Proper Ways to do so without one. He’ll just keep ignoring them and ignore Gandalf’s sad looks too.

 But then his breath hitches on an unintentional sob and really, _damn_ the Proper Ways. Bilbo wipes away the wetness with his hands, which is exceedingly ineffectual and he really wishes he had that handkerchief. Now it seems like the salt water is flowing uncontrollably and that his face is swollen and drenched. He’s all but blubbering. It likely would have been better had he ignored his tears instead of recognizing them – might as well have invited the bloody things in.

 Gandalf places a warm, wrinkled hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, and it seems like an anchor in an otherwise pitch-black sea. It is a gesture of comfort without anything Proper about it. Honestly, the action would probably get the wizard set upon the mayor for its impropriety, but Bilbo doesn’t care.

 He is sick to the death of _caring_ so much.

 “Come along, Master Baggins,” says Gandalf kindly. “I have a tent set aside for me where I shall have a place set aside for you. King Thranduil has been generous in allowing us the use of his private space – and his drink – but let us not infringe upon his delicate generosity any longer.

 “Besides,” the wizard adds with a hint of mischief, “I hear from his son that he snores _dreadfully._ ”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think part of the "everybody tripping over stuff" scene was at least partly inspired by my lowkey anger at the Legolas action scenes with improbable gymnastics and whatever in the moves. Like, I came for the Company, not Impossible Legolas VS. the CGI orcs. Also, I bet there are elves who haven't changed their interior decorating setups in thousands of years. 
> 
> Anyways, Gandalf knew. I somehow forgot just how direct some of the messages of this fic became.


	14. The Battle of the Five Armies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be a sad thing for everything to culminate in death and ruin, but it seems to be the way everything is headed.

  Bilbo cannot sleep.

 His crying fit continued in Gandalf’s tent, but ended a while ago now, and the wizard has been absent on the business of the upcoming battle. Bilbo has tried to get some rest, but he found that the quiet, dark, empty tent was too unsettling.

 At some point in time, Bilbo got used to falling asleep to a small band of dwarf snores, and now the lack of them disturbs him. He doesn’t really understand _why_ he misses the sound – it was honestly comparable to a stampede of ill cows trying to dance a jig while coughing up swarms of wasps – but he _does._ And that’s really just upsetting all on its own.

 There is also the fact that he knows if he dares sleep, his dreams will be filled with terrible things. Leaping, gnarled claws in the dark. Cold, strong fists that dangle him over deathfalls. There will be nothing but whispers of the contents of pockets and miserable burglars, and oh, dear, the nightmarish thoughts are taking too much space in Bilbo’s mind already. Time to stop that.

  _(Oh, finally.)_

 Bilbo’s wandering around the campsite now, set among the ruins of Dale, letting his feet take him wherever they wish and revelling in the solid feeling of firm ground beneath him. Mostly he watches the elf warriors patrolling, preparing, and the people of the once-Laketown doing the same or huddling together.

 Occasionally, however, he’ll stop and stare in the direction of the Lonely Mountain and wonder.

 The mountain is enormous, and he knows that Erebor is larger still. Does the Company feel small in the middle of something so big and empty and dead? Are they worried about the approaching orc army that has the surviving children of Esgaroth sobbing into their mothers’ arms? Or are they still staring greedily at that sick pile of gold that used to be a dragon’s bed?

 When his heart aches too much to wonder further, Bilbo turns away and keeps walking, and determinedly thinks of thoughts that don’t involve dwarves. Occasionally, he’ll look at a particularly tired and grim face of a man, or the carefully blank face of an elf, and he’ll wonder as he passes:

 Are they all just waiting here to die?

  _(Yes. Most likely.)_

 He hopes not.  

 That would be terrible.

 Bilbo is, most evidently, not in a very optimistic mood. He doesn’t have much reason to be. Everything hurts. He’s lost all his friends, his body is little more than aches and pains, and he’s likely to burn tomorrow – along with _everyone else._

 It would be a sad thing for everything to culminate in death and ruin, but it seems to be the way everything is headed. Mirkwood is nightmarish, the Laketown is burnt, Erebor is empty and sick, and all of this misery only seems to be getting worse.

 That’s a terrible ending. What an awful ending this story is set to have.

  _(The only worthwhile end to the long, dull song of the world…)_

 Eventually, Bilbo finds himself stopped in front of a tent close to those belonging to the Elfking and Gandalf and other important folk. In front of it is a human girl tending to a dying fire, likely in her older teenage years, who looks vaguely familiar. Next to the girl, a female elf with rich red hair is sharpeneing her sword with fierce focus, posed with all the tense relaxation of a guard.

 The human girl looks up. “Oh, hello,” she says, like she knows him.

 “Good evening,” Bilbo replies, though it is no such thing.

 He notices that the elf does not cease tending to her weapon, not even to glance in his direction. She must already be aware of his presence and have deemed him no threat. He doubts she’s using Hobbitish to inform him that she hates triangles with an unrivalled passion, of depths unseen before in this world, and will see the death of them all with extreme prejudice.

 For a long moment, none of them say anything. The girl goes back to poking at the meagre fire in front of her, and the elf warrior continues the repetitive slide of her hand down her blade, again and again. They seem as occupied with their thoughts as Bilbo is with his own.

 The girl looks up again, and her Hobbitish informs him that she finds the embroidery on his vest – which he isn’t wearing, since those clothes are long lost to him – rather disappointing and uneven on one end. He should really add a touch of gooseberry, and nineteen extra buttons couldn’t hurt.

 But she doesn’t mean any of that, and so it’s meaningless.

 “Good luck tomorrow,” she tells him, brightly and without a hint of fear, as though she’s been repeating it all night long and the lie is easily told by now.

 It should be just as meaningless as her Hobbitish, but she seems to mean it enough to make the wish seem genuine. There’s desperate well-meaning behind it, he thinks, a mix of kindness and fear, enough to make a fellow of a stranger in an awful situation.

 “You too,” Bilbo says, trying desperately to be meaningful as well.

 The girl smiles faintly, then goes back to her pitiful little fire. The elf next to her gives a faint nod without looking up. Bilbo ignores the sonnet on the evil of triangles and assumes he’s been dismissed.

 He leaves, wondering exactly how many stories are going to share the same terrible end tomorrow. How many are going to be left with no end in sight, just a long stretch of marching onwards after a horror-filled clash with no real finish? Whose stories will end and who will have to struggle with going on alone?

 There is a way these stories would go if life were fair, but life isn’t fair and all these stories can do is go on for as long as they can. Even if their subjects are utterly directionless and terrified and hurting.

 How selfish he and the Company have been.

  _(How ordinary and predictable.)_

 But it’s rather too late to regret that now.

  _(Oh, it always is.)_

 ~

 Morning comes with dreary horror. Too greyish and bright, but still with a looming shadow, one that seems to soak up all other shadows and the world seem unreal.

 There’s excitement on the breeze and fear in the wind. It feels like there’s a thunderstorm hidden in the blue sky that will burst at any moment, raining down blood instead of water, and a hail made of the sharpest iron.

 Death is in the air today and there is no joy in its presence.

  _(Well. Not for you.)_

 An excitement is in the tremble of the ground and the dreadful silence, one made of nameless things.

_(Oh, the rush. The rush.)_

 The stories never mentioned this part of things: the waiting.

  _(The great glory of war.)_

 Bilbo tries to prepare for the battle, as the men and elves seem to be doing, all of them in an endless labour, a circle of certainty of what is to come. But it doesn’t take nearly as long as he’d like.

 He’s already wearing the mithril shirt, always pleasantly cool to the touch, and he has no change of clothes or other armour. Sting needs no sharpening and Bilbo has never sharpened anything more than the kitchen knives, so that’s probably a good thing. Unfortunately, it all means that Bilbo very quickly runs out of ways to get ready, so he doesn’t feel very ready.

 It feels, even on a day where the sunlight shines tinged with terror, that he won’t ever be prepared or ready for this. He can Properly adjust his shirt as much as he likes – oh, he’s doing it wrong anyway, that’s the style for weddings, fool – but he won’t ever really be ready.

 Bloody hills, he doesn’t even know why he’s considering fighting.

 Hasn’t he sacrificed enough for those sick dwarves and their empty mountain? He has lost his language, his culture, his confidence, his sense of consequence, and his heart, to name a humble few. Or so it feels. He’s _bled_ for them. Does he really want to lose his life as well?

 No, not really.

 He owes his once-almost-maybe friends nothing, really.

 And everything.

 And after all they’ve been through, he doesn’t know which is worse.

 He hopes they’re okay- _No._ That’s not important right now. Alive is more important than okay at the moment. Okayness can be worried about later, much later. Though he doesn’t have to worry at all, because he doesn’t owe them and he doesn’t care anymore. Really, _he doesn’t._ He _doesn’t._ And maybe if he keeps telling himself that, he can somehow make it true. He _doesn’t,_ really.

  _(Really.)_

 But. _But…_ Bilbo does owe the people of the once-Laketown an awful lot. His foolishness set Smaug on them. It’s because of him and his prideful belief that he could banter with a dragon that so many are homeless, and many loved ones are dead. The least he can do is help them fight for their survival after putting such a terrible chapter into their stories.

 He could just apologize and see what that does, but he’s a coward on that front. Besides, don’t actions speak louder than words? He would rather take action now than interrupt these people’s focus with his regretful, blubbering words. They really don’t need that right now.

 Bilbo draws Sting. He admires the faint blue tint of the metal and the smooth lines of its making.

  _(Ugh.)_

 It really is a lovely blade, and it’s a shame Bilbo is the only one to use it. It’s a shame that it should be used at all. He still hasn’t really any clue how to go about using it well or Properly, but he did make a promise of sorts when he took it – that he would master it and wield it.

 Things aren’t really valued in the Shire unless they exist for a reason or a use, even if it’s something as silly as a flower crown or a daisy chain – to be fun and pretty. As superfluous as the Shire is, hobbit firmly believe that tools must be used: like teapots, handkerchief, needles, shovels… and… he supposes… swords.

 If Bilbo can save one life today, no matter how indirectly, then that will be an action worth taking.

 If it happens to be one the lives of his friends-that-were-almost, then he can only hope it will be action that speaks loudly and clearly. That the action will convey all the things he would communicate if there were any words or Hobbitish that fit them, or if there were the space on time’s misshapen wheel or the patience in his almost-friends’ fickle hearts for it to be heard.

 ~

 If there is one thing that can be said for great battles, Bilbo finds, it’s that as an end to this terrible story, they don’t disappoint in terms of horror or terribleness. The terribleness of this end is greater by far than the sum of the parts that have brought them here.

 Bilbo finds himself hating big and grand things, because small things are so much easier to comprehend and justify. And even when small things are horrible, at least they’re _less._

  _(Less? No, **more** of this. Just like old times. This is lovely.) _

 No, it’s _not._

 These actions aren’t even speaking. They’re screaming. Incoherent and painful and awful.

  _(Exactly. Perfect.)_

 There is nothing perfect about any of this. There is _nothing_ worth _anything_ about this mess. There is no great message in any of this, no meaning. There is only blood and death and bodies and filth and chaos – Bilbo thinks this in fearful anger, in his stand on Ravenhill among the elves – it is all a thousand times more useless and pointless and senseless than Hobbitish could ever hope to be.

 Bilbo makes his stand by the Elfking and Gandalf for a number of reasons.

 Firstly, because neither of them are likely to stab him in the back for the theft of the Arkenstone. Gandalf would never and King Thranduil doesn’t care enough about him or the rock to even contemplate it. The Elfking has much better things to do, like beheading dozens of orcs.

 Secondly, they have the best vantage point on the battlefield. From here, Bilbo be able to figure out where he might do the best good, or perhaps flee the horror if these crashing tides of blades turn against them.

 He has no idea where the Company is and there’s no time to think about it.

 Bilbo tries to wipe the sweat from his brow, having momentarily forgotten that his hands are wet with blood. It’s all so Improper, thoroughly so, but all hardly any matter now. He hefts Sting up again and rubs the golden ring on his finger for comfort, before moving back towards the watch-post.

 He’s allowed himself to move too far out into the fray of things and should get out of the middle of it all, at least before a new wave of orcs filled this temporarily empty space of mud and gore and fallen warriors.

 Sunlight breaks through the clouds and Bilbo turns to glance at the open wound in the overcast. It feels like he hasn’t seen proper sunlight for days.

 He squints as he notices faint outlines of moving shapes in the glow, their movements are too quick and odd to be clouds, and they’re growing larger against the wind. Bilbo recognizes the shapes just as a wingtip finally bursts through the clouds, and lets out a cry of delighted realization.

 “THE EAGLES! THE EAGLES!” Bilbo shouts to the crowd of elves fighting for their lives nearby, as a warning or just out of sheer relief that has to be shared. He doesn’t know. “THE EAGLES ARE COMING! _THE EAGLES ARE COMING!”_

_(Oh, for f-)_

 He makes a break for the Elfking and Gandalf, his voice growing hoarse from trying to be heard above the din of battle, the iron clash and war cries. If anyone will know what to do in this crucial moment, with this saving grace, it will be one of them.

 The elves begin to take up his cry, one by one, until the hope echoes around the valley. If it is a lie, a false hope, then it is a moralizing one that swells against their enemies with deadly force. Bilbo too can feel the swell of hope, one that feels too grand to be false even though it might be. Bilbo feels, as he runs, that he might burst at any moment with the desperate, rising joy of a possible tomorrow.

 Then comes the burst. Pain explodes through his head and he smashes against the muddy ground.

 Bilbo tries to pull himself up, but that direction is a mystery and there’s no breath with which to do that. He can’t see. The din is drowning him. The whispering, moaning world of being invisible closes in with an instant snap of bright white and spotting black and a quiet, _mocking_ laugh. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've written so much of the Hobbit already, I had to do the Battle of the Five Armies. However, since this entire fic was originally written before the 3rd Hobbit movie came out, it's all AU of book canon from Smaug's death onwards. I'm sure most of you have by now noticed that this has been an AU of a mix of book and movie canon. 
> 
> The human girl was Bard's eldest daughter, Sigrid, and the elf was Tauriel, as depicted in the movies. However, Tauriel, like Thranduil and Legolas, has been adapted here closer to the style of the book. F.Y.I. Tauriel has been pushed into a role of Legolas' ex-babysitter (he doesn't have any romantic feelings towards her) / Thranduil's jack-of-all-trades right-hand woman (a.k.a. Thranduil's babysitter / exasperated adopted daughter), and didn't leave the elves to chase the dwarves (Kili never got shot here). Bilbo has seen none of her and Kili's scenes (and not met her until now), so I'm stating it here that, in this, it was more of a mutual fascination than anything else. While Tauriel likes Kili and Kili likes her, as much as you can like a stranger, they both had their duty and followed it. 
> 
> Anyway, my favorite version of the Battle of the Five Armies is probably the book's version. It's a terrible mess that lasts a couple pages and Bilbo is knocked out for most of it. 
> 
> Don't worry, things are going to be fine.


	15. The End of an Adventure I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If there’s a committee somewhere out there that organizes great battles, Bilbo wouldn’t even bother to write a strongly worded letter or send them flowers with a periwinkle bow, he’d just burn their meeting place down completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some profanity and yelling. No angst, though.

 Bilbo wakes up and the first thing he realizes is the quiet. There is no clash and shriek of blade against blade, no scream and cry of warring soldiers, no thump and smash of stomping boots and falling bodies. The ground is still and the world is quiet and the hobbit first thought is that he’s dead.

  _(…How are you still alive?)_

 Then he realizes that he’s still attached to his body, which is aching surprisingly subtly, and tries to move. It quickly becomes evident that he’s not dead, if only because only in life could someone hurt so much absolutely everywhere, feel sick to their stomach with emptiness and weariness, and feel so cold and filthy as he does. Only life could feel so unsatisfactorily awful and he’s never been so utterly overjoyed because of it.

  _(No, really.)_

 Bilbo lies back and opens his eyes to stare at the sky. Still overcast, but less dismal somehow, and very bright to his pained head. He sighs, then inhales, revelling in the delightful feeling of being able to take in a simple breath full of air.

 Battles are the most Improper, unpleasant, distressing things he’s ever witnessed in his life, and he feels that the less of them he gets involved in, the happier and healthier he will be in the future. None out of any number would recommend, especially not him. If there’s a committee somewhere out there that organizes great battles, Bilbo wouldn’t even bother to write a strongly worded letter or send them flowers with a periwinkle bow, he’d just burn their meeting place down completely.

 Good hills, he’s so _glad_ that’s over.

 But… what _happened?_

  _(You missed it.)_

 Bilbo pulls himself to his feet and look about, which is no easy feat.

  _(You missed… an entire battle.)_

 He can see torches being lit a way away, in a camp. So, he hobbles slowly in that direction. It looks like someone has moved the elves’ and Laketown people’s campsite closer to the mountain and added a whole bunch of dwarvish-looking tents anywhere that would fit. There’s shapes of people moving about – dwarves, men, and elves – clearly on business. No celebration.

 Victory is clearly theirs, judging by the lack of goblins – at least, goblins that aren’t corpses – but everything looks so small and quiet. Victory, from a distance, looks a gloomy and sorrowful business to Bilbo, just by looking out at the subdued survivors. A hollow, dizzying thing.

  _(This is… unexpected.)_

 But maybe Bilbo’s just dizzy in general.

 By the bodies that Bilbo passes as he walks, or rather: stumbles, bodies that he is pointedly ignoring, Bilbo supposes that battles of such scale and violence could hardly be anything else. The next time he hears of his mother’s family speak about Bullroarer bloody Took and the glory of his golf-inventing victory against the goblins, Bilbo is going to punt Hobbitish out the fucking window and punch someone in the face. Just watch him do it. As soon as his ribs stop hurting.

 He wants to run. He wants to charge down Ravenhill and demand to know who is alive and who isn’t and see all these people for himself. Has the Company made it? Are his once-almost-maybe friends still alive? Still gold-mad? Or are they cured in death and lost forever in the full cruelty of fate? 

  _(Perhaps it would be better to lay low?)_

 Is Gandalf alive? The wizard must be, because Bilbo can’t imagine him otherwise.

  _(Wouldn't it be nice to find a dark, isolated cave somewhere? No?)_

 What of the Elfking, and his lieutenant, Legolas? King Thranduil still strikes a tinge of fear and a deep sense of being clumsy and inelegant into Bilbo’s heart, but it still hurts to imagine the imperious elf lying dead and bloody like any other mortal being. It hurts now to look at the elf warriors among the fallen, who should have been for much longer, and had lost perhaps thousands of merry years for no reason.

 Has Bard come out of this as well? Or did the man survive and slay a dragon only to die in the chaos of the fight? Who will speak for the Lakepeople then? Are there even any Lakepeople left to speak, after both the burning and the battle? Will they be left, just children and the elderly, without a home or their hero or any hope at all?

 A man climbs into view over the hills and bodies, a Laketown man searching the field, and – Hobbitish sensibilities and carefully thinking about movements be damned – Bilbo calls out to him and stumbles forward desperately.

 What have his actions been for?

 ~

 Before he really knows what’s happening, Bilbo is inside some overly-decorated dwarvish tent, looking down at Thorin Oakenshield on his supposed “deathbed.” The royal pain-in-the-arse looks like someone took him and smashed _him_ against a rock wall, so… like shit, but Bilbo can’t actually see anything that isn’t treatable if someone gets an elf healer in here.

 Seriously, where’s the healer?

 When Bilbo doesn’t respond to Thorin’s opening statement – largely because he’s a _little_ surprised to have been unceremoniously shoved in front of the dwarf who tried to _kill_ him not two days ago – beyond a simple nod, which is really just the hobbit looking the dwarf up and down for an actual death wound, Thorin begins a dying speech that is so melodramatic that Bilbo doesn’t know whether to continue staring in disbelief or to burst out laughing until he cries.

 Around them, dwarves of the Iron Hills – no members of the Company except Balin, strangely enough – are already sobbing and wailing or stoically crying as though their king is already dead. Bilbo wants to tell them to shut the bloody hills up, damn it, because his head hurts enough already without them making it worse while he tries very hard to keep up with Thorin’s speech.

 Bilbo’s really not succeeding in listening to Thorin, though. The dwarf is somehow even more pompous and long-winded now than he was at the start of all this nonsense in Bag End. Which is just fucking _amazing,_ actually, but it’s all Bilbo can do to nod in what seems like the right places.

  Bilbo focuses instead on how he can see no sign of Óin, or any other healers, and it doesn’t look like anyone is even _trying_ to do anything about Thorin’s wounds. Like Thorin just assumed he was dying and everybody else just went with it. The tent is stuffy and filled with crying people and Thorin has apparently convinced himself these are his last moments – which they may be if he just stays here like this, talking about how much he’s dying and surrounded by people acting like it.

 Thorin’s speech starts winding down and Bilbo comes back from his thoughts long enough to hear: “-us valued good and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world. But sad or merry, I must leave it now. Farewell!”

 That bit sounded rather good actually, and it might have been an apology. Bilbo liked it very much.

 Unfortunately, this is where one of the many crying dwarves in the tent tries pulling Bilbo away while the wailing gets louder. The sound really grates on the severe ache in Bilbo’s head. As though not hearing the incredibly loud mourning around him, Thorin slowly leans his head back and closes his eyes, exhaling slowly like he’s about to die in this tragically regal pose, even though he just gave a whole speech and sounded perfectly fine.

  _But what of his people?_ Bilbo wants to scream. What of his nephews? Where _are_ Fíli and Kíli?

 Tears are running freely all around and it seems to Bilbo like someone’s going to wheel a ready-made coffin out at any moment. He hasn’t seen anything this ridiculously and unnecessarily dramatic since his young cousins accidentally kidnapped a prize cow. At all this, something inside the poor hobbit – a communication filter perhaps, one that has been worn down almost complete raw over the course of the quest – just sort of _snaps._

 To be fair, this has been a _long_ time coming by point.

 “Are you _fucking_ with me?” Bilbo says loudly, and everyone in the tent stops completely still to stare at him. The hobbit looks around at all of them, unimpressed. “Are you seriously fucking with me right _fucking_ now with this _fucking shit?!”_  

 Bilbo whirls back to Thorin, who actually flinches back slightly, staring at Bilbo with wide eyes like he’s never seen him before in his life. Like Bilbo has suddenly turned into his fearsome grandmother, at least by the expression of confused terror. Good.

 “I DID NOT,” Bilbo says, “LOSE THE THINGS I LOST, AND DO THE THINGS I DID, AND SUFFER ALL YOUR **SHIT IMPROPER HOBBITISH** SO YOU, YOU BLOODY ASS-STUBBORN, ASS-STUPID, I’M-BETTER-THAN-YOU _FUCKING ARSEHOLE_ COULD UP AND DIE AT THE LAST BLOODY MINUTE LIKE SOME TRAGIC CABBAGE OF A HERO IN A SUMMER FESTIVAL _STAGE PRODUCTION!_ ”

 Bilbo takes in a deep breath, and continues yelling, “YOU DYING IS UNACCEPTABLE, YOU NOBLE, CARROT-BRAINED FOP. HAS ANYONE EVEN FUCKING _TRIED_ TO GET AN ELF IN HERE?”

 The dwarves look like Bilbo just suggested they light the tent on fire, toss their king into a river, and then dance starkers around the camp with a plate of burnt scones. Which is technically what Bilbo is saying in Hobbitish at the moment, but he’s too pissed off to care. His head hurts. He has _had it_ with these dwarves and this nonsense. He did _not_ experience utter relief at learning Thorin survived only for the dwarf king to up and die on him now.

 “None would come if we did!” one of the many nameless dwarves protests.

 “YOU DIDN’T EVEN FUCKING ASK.” Bilbo knows they didn’t. “HOW DO YOU KNOW THEY WOULDN’T, YOU DRIED-OUT, FLAKY BEAN-TART?”

 “But-”

 “Shut _up._ I DON’T NEED TO HEAR YOUR EAR-SHRIVELING FOOLISHNESS IF YOU HAVEN’T THE FUCKING SENSE TO VALUE THE SURVIVAL OF YOUR KING OVER YOUR MATHOM GOLD OR STUPID FUCKING RIVALRIES THAT ARE PETTY AND IMMATURE ENOUGH FOR A DAMN _SHIRE BAKING CONTEST!”_

 The dwarf shrinks back, defeated. But the battle is hardly over, because Bilbo isn’t done with these ridiculous, soup-burning buggers yet.

 “YOU,” Bilbo accuses, “YOU CASSEROLE-BURNING, SHOE-WEARING, SOFT-FOOTED SOGGY-CAKE-SERVER.” He points directly at Balin, who goes cross-eyed trying to stare at the hobbit’s finger, almost touching the bridge of his nose.

 “DON’T LET THESE FUCKING TWITS DO _ANYTHING_ ELSE. I’M GOING TO GET A BLOODY HEALER IN HERE AND _THEN YOU_ CAN APOLOGIZE TO ME FOR _NEARLY LETTING ME BE FUCKING KILLED_ OVER A USELESS, FUCKING, ROOM-DESIGN-RUINING, NOT-WORTHY-OF-BEING-A-PAPERWEIGHT _ROCK!”_

 Behind the hobbit, at least one hardened dwarf warrior faints, and two more stagger into their comrades from becoming weak in the knees due to sheer disbelief and horror at a statement like that. Bilbo, who is huffing from his outburst, ignores them because he, frankly, doesn’t give a shit and is far too busy glaring at Thorin and Balin, who apparently thought this was an acceptable place and time and way to apologize for _nearly killing him_ and would apparently rather let Thorin _die_ than appeal to elves for help.

 Thorin opens his mouth to say something.

 “Shut up,” Bilbo says, turning the terrible pointing finger on the dwarf king, who flinches again, and then storms out through the tent flap. No one stops him.

 Outside the tent, Gandalf is standing there, with his incredibly bushy eyebrows raised ridiculously high and his lips pressed together so tightly that his face is turning slightly red. Bilbo stops and turns towards Gandalf to stare openly, because the wizard, his _friend,_ is alive and Bilbo is overjoyed. He’s so happy that he almost abandons all his hobbit ways and hugs the old walking pile of grey fabric, desperately in need of a wash if not a replacement.

  _But,_ Bilbo reminds himself, _there will be time for that later._

 Bilbo raises himself up to his full height, which is still only half that of a tall wizard and less than half if counting the hat, and since he knows in his heart of hearts that Gandalf overheard much if not all of that, realizes in horror:

 “I’ve become my grandmother.”

 Then he shakes his head, because he can dwell on that later.

 “So, where could I find an elf healer, then?”

 The wizard breaks into a sudden coughing fit that Bilbo feels is completely unwarranted.

 ~

 After Gandalf has stopped laughing into his staff – which took a frankly impolite amount of time and Bilbo had to courteously and sarcastically explain to everyone who passed by that the wizard was simply overwrought with their reunion – the wizard takes the hobbit to see an elf whom he believes will be willing to heal Thorin. Along the way, Gandalf speaks to Bilbo of the many things that have happened since they last spoke.

 “I am glad that after all you have made it through alive and well!” the wizard says. “You, Master Baggins, have no shortage of luck, of which I find myself terribly envious. Should you find a way to share it – and are willing to do so – do not hesitate to contact myself before any others.”

 “I don’t think I am willing. I barely have enough as it is, it seems,” Bilbo mutters, before saying louder, “How is the rest of the Company? I know only of Thorin-” _[stupid, self-centred, stubborn piece of fruitcake]_ “-and of Balin.” _[unbelievable, foolish holder of burnt, salt-drowned tarts]_ “What of the others, how do they fare? Are they well?”

Gandalf breaks off into another untimely coughing fit, and Bilbo cannot resist adding in some Hobbitish comments on how the wizard must be coming down with something and should isolate himself before he infects all others with this plague that causes laughter at inappropriate moments. Unfortunately, this just makes the wizard “cough” all the harder.

 “You have your father’s dry tone and your mother’s wit and I fear you will be the end of me, my friend” Gandalf says finally. “I must ask you to return to the Proper Ways, or all my dreams of more glorious fall with be dashed.”

 “Death due to laughter?” Bilbo replies. “I wouldn’t be able to believe it. I would have to make something up. Something much more exciting, with chases and adventure and a more frightening foe. Please don’t; I fear my imagination won’t be up to the task, and, at best, I shall have the world thinking you were felled by a great black ram with a particularly fiery temper – not unlike the way my great-uncle broke his hip.”

 Gandalf tilts his head. _[let me consider your offer for a moment]_

 “Ah,” he says finally, “how one can only dream of such a magnificent ending.”

 Bilbo snorts despite himself, and Gandalf continues, “I am sure, dear Bilbo, that you would do it great justice. Now, of the rest of the Company, you were asking…”

 Óin is working with Dain and King Thranduil’s healers to save wounded soldiers. Apparently there is an admirable lack of discrimination in whose lives are being saved. Dwarves and elves and men are working together to beat death back with broomsticks and bandages, if they must, no matter their patient.

 Glóin and Nori, who have minimal injuries, are working to catalogue supplies, so that accurate records are kept and resources are distributed as needed. They don’t want to have survived the battle only to go hungry because they can’t keep track of their own larder – a notion that Bilbo approves of heartily.

 Dori has broken an arm, but that has been tended to and he’s still helping distribute supplies and direct soldiers, mostly to and from the healers. Ori is assisting him, keeping his elder brother under his own watchful eyes for once.

 Bombu, Bofur, and Bifur are out on the battlefield still, working to bring in the wounded who may yet remain. They are willing to leave no one behind.

 “What of Dwalin and Fíli and Kíli?” Bilbo asks. “Where are they?”

 The wizard smiles faintly, sadly, for a moment, and the hobbit’s heart seems to stop.

 “The princes took great injury in the battle, in defence of their uncle,” Gandalf says, “but thankfully will come out of this with nothing worse than some few scars and, most horrible, the wisdom of experience. Dwalin is with them now.”

 Bilbo’s heart restarts with the fierce feeling that that lead up was _not_ necessary.

 The wizard continues: “It happened that King Thranduil, in _his_ wisdom, saw fit to assign to them their own guard for the battle, the captain of his guard, who wonderfully also has a great deal of knowledge as a healer.”

 “But _why?”_ Bilbo demands, mystified.

 He can’t quite fathom why the Elfking would do such a thing. By what the hobbit has seen of the elf’s relationship with the Line of Durin, King Thranduil seems inclined more towards the opposite, if anything.

 “I volunteered,” says an unfamiliar voice, light and silvery.

 Bilbo turns to realize that Gandalf has led him into a new tent, an elvish one by the look of it, where stands the tall, red-haired, female elf that was sitting by the human girl before the battle. Behind her, Kíli is resting on a makeshift cot, with Fíli on a stool by his side, and Dwalin standing guard off in one corner. Every single one of them, including Dwalin, have discarded their armour in favour of softer clothing and _lots_ of bandages – though Dwalin has yet to let go of his axe.

 None of the dwarves look to have even a hint of gold-madness, and the panic that wound up when Bilbo first saw them unwinds into quiet relief. They’re all just _there_ – looking at him with various degrees of solemn or nervous uncertainty. They’re all _okay._

 “Tauriel, Captain of the Greenwood Guard,” the elf says, nodding her head in greeting as she cleans her hands of what looks like blood. “I have much experience in looking after the children of royalty and suggested that, with my abilities, I would be of more use in the battle watching the backs of the dwarf princes than simply waiting with the children of the Dragonslayer.”

 “And he _agreed_ with that?” Bilbo asks, still mystified, because that sounds far too reasonable to appeal to the Elfking that the hobbit has come to know thus far.

 The elf smirks wickedly, bringing attention to her split, swollen lips.

 “I also reminded my king that should the Line of Durin fall, then Dain, son of Nain, would become King-Under-The-Mountain,” she elaborates coolly. “My king was… not anxious to have the Lord of the Iron Hills as his neighbour, should the current family fall in battle. So my place became with the dwarfish princelings.”

 From the bed, with a leg elevated and wrapped, Kíli pipes up with a playful drawl, “My hero.”

 Then he winks, for good measure.

 Next to him, Fíli puts his bandaged head into hands with bruised knuckles, and Dwalin groans loudly. And while Bilbo cannot see the wizard’s face at his side and rather far up, he would bet quite a lot that Gandalf is doing his damnedest not to burst into yet another bloody coughing fit.

 The elf just keeps smiling, and doesn’t react beyond briefly glancing back at Kíli with a raised brow.

 “How many I be of service, Master Hobbit?” Tauriel says.

 “Are you willing to heal one more royal dwarf, Captain?” Bilbo says frankly.

 Behind Tauriel, all three of the dwarves seem to instantly blanch.

 “Is Uncle alright?” Kíli demands from his bed, a sudden wild look to his eyes.

 Fíli is calm, but tightly wound. “They took him away to a tent somewhere to get attention from the healers, didn’t they? Are – are his wounds too much for-?”

 “Apparently, since they’re all convinced he’s dying for some reason, including him,” Bilbo replies shortly, inwardly wincing at himself for it, because the dwarves look grimmer for the bluntness. “Oh… um… sorry. He’ll be fine, I think. He just needs a good healer.”

  _[and a proper knock to the head, probably]_

 Gandalf coughs.

 The dwarves all lighten, slightly, but they still look uneasy. Bilbo grimaces at their pain. He doesn’t really know how to act here, because they _did_ almost let him be killed, but letting them think their uncle might be dying is a terrible thing to say in any case. He hasn’t a clue what to say or how to say it, in actions or words. He wants to reassure them, all of them, but do they even want any reassurance from him?

 Later, there will be time later to work out such things. Not now, but later.

 What a freeing concept.

 There will be a later.

 Imagine that.

 “Mistress Healer, Captain of the Greenwood Guard, would you be kindly willing to see to the royal arsehole?” Bilbo asks, moving briskly forward in the conversation.

 Tauriel raises her brows at him now, looking bemused, while the princes and Dwalin stare incredulously for some reason. What, have they never heard a hobbit curse before?

 Oh, right, they’ve never heard a hobbit curse before. Bilbo hasn’t been saying any of this stuff aloud before. _Ri~ight._ No one knows about the very rude things he’s been calling Thorin for… months now. Well, they’re just going to have to get used to that, because Bilbo is very tired.

 “What’s another royal arsehole to look after?” Tauriel says, her bloody lips twitching. “Lead the way.”

 ~

 Tauriel truly wasn’t lying when she said she had much experience in dealing with royal children. She takes over Thorin’s tent like she owns it, and very efficiency tosses everyone who isn’t Thorin out arse-over-tit with a few well-placed words and some better-placed shoving.

 She’s so purposefully ignorant and forcefully polite that the Proper gentlehobbit in Bilbo can only stare in hobbity awe and respect. Bilbo supposes that being a captain in the Elfking’s guard would give someone a talent for handling the bullshit of people with swelled senses of their own importance. If she can suffer King Thranduil and his court daily for hundreds or thousands of years, then a bunch of noble dwarves probably seem like little more than squalling fauntlings to her.

 By the looks of the noble dwarves of the Iron Hills, who are extraordinarily pissed off that their wailing has been interrupted, Bilbo is going to get knifed in the back for leaving Thorin in Tauriel's very pretty and capable hands. Most of the dwarves seem certain she’ll kill him, but Bilbo doesn’t really get their upset over that since they thought he was dying _anyway._ In Bilbo’s opinion, though she is an elf, however this is such an offense, she’ll have the entire Line of Durin in her debt by sundown at this rate, and that seems like a pretty decent reason to let her have at it.

 Oh, maybe that’s what they’re so pissed off about: an elf having their entire royal family in life-debt.

 Well, too bad, because Bilbo really doesn’t care about that and won’t be convinced to care. What they think their “fearsome” glares and scowls are accomplishing, he doesn’t know, because very glare just increases Bilbo’s conviction in doing things solely to piss them off. Ten more dirty looks and he’ll bring the Elfking here as well – he has no idea _how_ exactly, but bonus points in that because Thorin would probably squawk too – just see if he won’t.

 Bilbo is well and truly angry that so many people – including Thorin(!) – just gave up on Thorin living through this. The Company actually managed to reclaim the mountain and the dragon was slain – thank you, Bard – and defeat an army of orcs. How, after surviving _all that,_ can they even conceive of not doing everything possible to _live?_ The entire Company sacrificed so much for Thorin, the least that pompous arsehole dwarf with his mad quest and insufferable stubbornness and constant brooding can do is actually live _to be king._ For Fíli and Kíli’s sake if not his own.

 These glaring dwarves from the Iron Hills haven’t even seen the beginning of what Bilbo can dish up in terms of stupidly petty shit. They might not know it, but Bilbo has them outmatched by the leagues.

 Bilbo was raised in the _Shire,_ damn it. He eats complicated squabbles between power-hungry, ambitious idiots for first breakfast. He can dish out petty insults on a Properly arranged tray, served with a side of pink-frosted, too-salty cakes and some slightly-too-sour lemonade.

 So, these Iron Hills dwarf nobles can suck a chestnut and eat burnt oatmeal biscuits, because Bilbo isn’t letting that foolish arsehole die until he gets a better apology and a soft bed and a warm meal, and until Thorin’s had a damn long life on that stupid throne he worked so hard for. Bloody hills, at the _very least_ until that. Bilbo will settle for nothing less.

 Bilbo matches one of the dwarves’ glares and stares fiercely back until the fancy-armoured twit looks away uncomfortably, claiming the need to be elsewhere immediately. Hah! And the fellow gave in without knowing any of the viciously high-handed comments Bilbo was slinging their way! What a weak-willed, crumb-spewing, mud-tracking silver-grabber! Bilbo doesn’t know what he expected of someone who was just going to let their king fade away like that.

 His Aunt Camellia wouldn’t have given in so easily if she were cold, dead, and _buried for three months._

 Someone next to the hobbit clears their throat, and Bilbo whirls on them, demanding frigidly, “Can I _help_ you?”

 The reflexive Hobbitish accompanying this, which the receiver will never know, is: _[off a fucking cliff. I’ll even get your ugly coat for you since it matches you so well.]_

 “Oh,” Bilbo says quietly, as who it is sinks into his head with no small degree of surprise and a tiny bit of panic. “Hullo, Balin. How are you?”

 “Casserole-burning, shoe-wearing, soft-footed soggy-cake-server?” Balin asks curiously.

 “Ah… ehm,” Bilbo says slowly. “Well… um… yes?”

 The white-bearded dwarf’s lips are pressed together firmly and his cheeks are starting to go red, but his fixed stare continues and it’s all Bilbo can do not to fidget. Fidget! His mind is being extraordinarily unhelpful right now, like a flopping fish out of water, really.

 “Yes, I… ah… just – just… yes,” the hobbit finishes eloquently. Then he draws in a breath, lifts his head, straightens his spine, and folds his arms over his chest – pulling in as much confidence as he can – and says defensively, “I don’t suppose you’ve got that apology for-”

 “Nearly letting you be killed o’er a useless, room-design-ruining, not-worthy-of-being-a-paperweight rock?” Balin finishes, outright smiling now. Mischeviously, for some reason. “I believe I may be able to find one somewhere for you, laddie.”

 And the old dwarf does, and it’s Bilbo Baggins can do to stand there, face burning, and not to curl up into a ball to hide. Balin apologizes profusely, thoroughly, loudly, and makes sure to commend Bilbo and his actions just as deeply. Bilbo Baggins is proclaimed to be a friend beyond measure for his bravery and sacrifice.

 It’s plain for anyone – like the watching crowd they’re gathering – to see. It’s _genuine_ and _emotional_ and the most embarrassing thing Bilbo has witnessed on this entire quest.

 Bilbo Baggins may have lost the Proper Ways somewhere along this quest, and his Hobbitish has thoroughly deteriorated since starting it, but this is too much. Hobbits are a loving people as much as anyone else – sometimes, mostly only to immediate family, and to anyone else on rare, almost miraculous occasions – but they don’t just… _say_ this sort of elaborate thing _aloud_ and so… so… unplanned and Improper and damned _sincere_ in the _public view!_

 “That,” Bilbo says, pulling his red face from his hands once Balin is done, “was completely and utterly unnecessary. I shall never forgive you for it. Was that revenge for the things I yelled in there? You really, _really shouldn’t have.”_

 “Mmm, I believe I definitely did,” Balin insists firmly, eyes bright and smile wide. “You, Master Burglar, saved all of Erebor, its king, and we owe you more than any amount of gold can e’er-”

 “If you try and give me any of that gold, I will _do something drastic,_ ” Bilbo interrupts desperately. _“Stop.”_

 But Balin’s volume only seems to increase and a few more people join the extremely entertained crowd of dwarves and elves and men around them. If Bilbo gets any more attention at the moment, he feels like he will spontaneously burst into flames. He can’t even get his golden ring out of his pocket to put it on because so many people are watching. Balin can very much _shut up_ anytime now.

 “-match. You have my utmost gratitude for everything and my friendship, independent of all other loyalties, for the rest of my days. You-”

 “Still have my Elvish letter-opener and _I will use it._ Please, _stop._ Just _stop talking.”_

 “Very well,” Balin agrees, his voice finally dropping down to an acceptable volume, with a smile that suggests the bastard knew exactly what he was doing the entire time. The _arsehole._

 Embarrassing Bilbo with an apology like _that_ was completely out of line.

 “Thank you,” Bilbo says, relieved, and glances at the crowd watching them curiously. He could swear it multiples by two every time he looks. Apparently the common, nosy interest in gossip really isn’t just a Shire thing. These people just went to war, don’t they have better things to do?

 Apparently not.

 “So, tell me, Master Baggins,” Balin says suddenly, sounding intrigued. “What’s ‘Hobbitish’?”

 Bilbo falls back on the time-tested hobbit panic response again – he freezes. Then the hobbit slowly turns to look at the dwarf in horror, wide-eyed against Balin’s innocently curious look that is, frankly, the most bullshit thing Bilbo has ever seen since his Aunt Donnamira told her husband that no one could even notice his receding hairline.

 Uncle Hugo’s hair has been running away from his forehead inch by inch since the man came of age _decades_ ago.

 “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Bilbo says. “None at all.”

 “Master Baggins, I can, if need be, repeat e’ery word of your outburst perfectly. Word for word. Even here and now if you so desire.”

 The hobbit casts another desperate look at the still-growing crowd. Even Beorn is there now. When the fuck did Beorn get here?

 Beorn grins and waves, and Bilbo cannot do anything but meekly wave back.

 Really, what is the man doing here? Probably increasing his collection of orc heads or the like. Maybe he’s making a fence of staked heads. That seems like something that the giant bear-man would do.

 “In fact, I distinctly remember the part where you said that-”

 “Master Balin, for the love of all that is green, I will tell you later,” Bilbo says, completely defeated. “But for the moment will you _please shut up!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revisiting and rewriting my fic, I think my new headcanon for this scene is that, while Thorin is very definitely injured, he's not actually dying, he's just being dramatic. Because that would be hilarious. So, I guess: AU in which nobody was actually fatally injured, friends. Idk, it's up to you. 
> 
> For anyone who missed it, I described my adaption of Tauriel in the end notes of the last chapter (royal babysitter / right hand woman, essentially) and what she's been up to. I really like Tauriel, but I think the love triangle was silly (everybody knows Gimli is the first and last love of Legolas' life) and the execution of the love story could have been a lot better. (I also really like the idea of a dutiful Tauriel getting her king to assign her to the princes to keep Dain from becoming their neighbor. The idea that Thranduil has to decide which dwarf he dislikes more is hilarious to me.) 
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is a.k.a. "Bilbo just straight-up loses it."


	16. The End of an Adventure II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something new is coming. Something with so very much fantastic possibility and potential: to go absolutely great or absolutely horribly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you know what the best part about endings is?

 Somehow, Bilbo ends up back in Fíli and Kíli’s tent, where he originally found Tauriel, and where Dwalin hasn’t left the princes’ sides. And, for some reason, the entire Company shows up – except for Óin, who hasn’t left the healing tents – and also except for Thorin, who hasn’t yet managed to escape the healer who has him imprisoned in his tent and is forcing him to live, completely ruining all of his melodramatic plans.

 Just before they left, Tauriel poked her head out of the tent long enough to tell them that Thorin is definitely going to live and to admit, with a tinge of wonder, that Thorin might be _almost_ as much of a royal arsehole as her own king. She sounded extremely impressed.

 Balin also pushed Bilbo over to see a healer and the hobbit now has his own fair share of bandages. Luckily, there’s no permanent damage, as far as they can tell. After a quick wash, the hobbit and dwarf were swiftly kicked out of the healing tents in favour of more unstable or endangered patients.

 At first, walking back into the tent is awkward. There’s a stretching silence that Bilbo doesn’t want to break and doesn’t know how to. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to, because Dwalin steps forward and gives him a crushing hug that might actually put Thorin’s hugs entirely out of business. And, strangely enough, the hug actually isn’t a Hobbitish innuendo or sexual proposition for once.

 It’s a poisoning threat. But still. _Progress._

 Dwalin gives a rough apology for his own part in the madness, then shoves Bilbo towards Fíli by Kíli’s bedside, and orders the brothers to apologize as well.

 Fíli scoffs at the implication that they weren’t going to anyway, then delivers his own heartfelt apology with Kíli, who is laying injured on the bed still, but looks ready to beg on his wounded knees if necessary. Then Fíli engulfs Bilbo in his own hug, and seriously, hobbits are really missing out with having restrictions on hugging because dwarves are _really good_ at it.

 Kíli, unable to rise and deliver his own hug, grabs his brother by the back of his shirt and tugs Fíli and Bilbo backwards onto him. Then sits up and adds his own, extremely awkward but no less enthusiastic, arms to the embrace, loudly expressing how sorry he is and how glad he is that Bilbo is okay despite everything and how glad he is that _everyone_ is okay despite everything. After a while, Fíli and Bilbo have to try and forcefully detach themselves to be able to breathe.

 Balin and Dwalin just watch, laughingly and useless.

 But, just as Bilbo tugs himself free, sacrificing Fíli to break out, the tent flap opens and in walk the Urs. Bilbo stumbles backwards into Bifur and practically gets his bones squeezed out, and then suddenly he’s facing Bofur and Bombur as they thoroughly apologize and demand to know if he’s well and healthy and if he can _ever_ forgive them.

 Bilbo forgives them immediately. The Urs are good people and apparently Bofur was horribly worried that Bilbo was _dead._ Bilbo just doesn’t have the heart to stay mad at any of them.

 At any of the Company, really, if he’s being honest with himself.

 Then come the Ri brothers and Glóin, each with their own individual expressions of joy and sorrow in their reunion. Glóin is long-winded and definitely sincere. Dori is awkward and halting, but the way he makes to fix Bilbo’s ruined clothing, even one-handed, shows his feelings clearly. Ori’s apology is quiet and neat, like he’s been thinking about it for a while, and his hug is just so.

 And finally, Nori’s apology is little more than a nod in his younger brother’s direction and a, “what he said,” but he steps forward to give Bilbo a careful embrace without prompting.

 On their heels comes Gandalf, with his long arms full of wine that he probably managed to procure from the Elfking, though it isn’t clear if the Elfking was aware of this. Gandalf procures goblets equally mysteriously and the Company finds seats somehow. Then they all settle down to keep company with good wine and good friends in a candlelit celebration in a crowded tent of the happiest of occasions: being alive despite life.

 After some time and stories have passed, and Bilbo has finished his first cup of wine and is on his second, Balin asks again about Hobbitish.

 “I don’t mean to pry,” Balin says slowly, and on his other side, his brother snorts loudly, “but I confess I can’t keep myself from being curious. You seemed quite upset about Thorin’s ‘shit improper’ Hobbitish and I have ne’er heard of any language of hobbitfolk before.”

 “Oh, um, you wouldn’t have,” Bilbo replies, turning away from Bifur and Bofur’s re-enactment of a particular fight during the battle for the Company’s amusement. “We don’t really talk about it. At all, actually. Like, really, not at all.”

 “So, you have one?”

 “Everyone else does, why wouldn’t we?”

 “Why isn’t it spoken of?” Nori asks, having been eavesdropping from the hobbit’s other side.

 Bilbo shrugs – such a bad habit, and it’s all these dwarves’ fault, really. “Because it’s not a spoken language,” he answers simply, taking another sip of his wine.

 “Like Iglishmêk?”

 “Don’t know. What’s that?”

 “The sign language Bifur uses,” Balin supplies. “I would have thought we would have noticed if Thorin was communicating in such a way. I know for a fact that he does not know any Hobbitish and cannot recall an opportunity he would have had to learn it.”

 “No, no, it’s much more subtle than that,” Bilbo assures them, as someone hands him another goblet of wine. “Much, _much_ more subtle. You’ve been communicating in it too, actually. Almost all the time. It’s that subtle. Really tiny gestures and complicated movements – it’s a _bugger_ to learn and do, honestly.”

 Balin and Nori blink in surprise, exchanging a look between them that the hobbit cannot read. He might have been able to before the wine came along. Why is he holding two? Is he already on his third? How time flies.

 How things change.

 Bilbo laughs in memory. “You would _not believe_ the things that you all said to me when you came to dinner at my home. It was really just utterly ridiculous, I had no idea what was happening or why you were all making such absurd statements and propositions and such. I forgot that none of you would know any Hobbitish and…”

 “Yes?” Nori prompts.

 “Well, it took me actually until just before Thorin arrived to get over the shock and realize that none of you knew Hobbitish. And that was really just such a relief. And really good too, since basically the first thing that Thorin, the royal arse, did was claim ownership of my home, then tell me he hoped sickness befell my herb garden, and that he was planning my painful and agonizing death with a _sugar spoon.”_

 This is the point where Bilbo notices the tent has gone completely silent. Except for Gandalf, because the wizard is busy having another coughing fit. (He should really see someone about that if he keeps persisting.) All of the dwarves are frozen mid-action, including Bifur and Bofur, and every one of them is staring at him in wide-eyed disbelief.

 Then Kíli blurts out: “Uncle did _what?”_

 ~

 So, Bilbo has to start at the beginning and explain exactly what Hobbitish is and the small and specific gestures that make it up, along with the complicated Proper Ways that dictate Shire traditions from flower bouquets to saucer arrangements during teatime. Bilbo regales his friends with all the horrid ways hobbits use their silent language, even relating the story of how his parents got together, but none of them seem to believe it until Gandalf backs him up.

 The dwarves set up the tent to have the wizard and hobbit sitting at opposite ends, then duck outside to devise messages for them to pass between each other. Bemused, Gandalf and Bilbo comply and pass messages as perfectly as they can.

 First, the messages start out simply, like, “My favourite colour is blue,” while the majority of dwarves insist that Bilbo did _nothing_ that could have be construed as communication. Gandalf’s eyes grow brighter and brighter with humour.

 Then, the messages get more complicated.

 “Hundreds of ravens used to fly around Ravenhill before the dragon came to the Lonely Mountain; now hopefully the flocks will return to their former greatness,” Gandalf says aloud, after Bilbo has finished wriggling his toes and crossing his legs and shifting his arms and nodding his head and scratching his fingers, and making all the other necessary Hobbitish gestures.

 The dwarves stare.

 “You got _all that_ from _that?”_ Glóin demands. “He was just fidgeting!”

 “You’d think that, but no. Hobbitish,” Bilbo replies, reaching for the goblet he’d set on the ground. “I told you all that it was subtle – and complicated. It’s the most absurdly complex language you’ll ever come across and impossible not to speak almost all the time. Mostly it’s a stream of nonsense if you don’t know the Proper Ways.

 “Or,” the hobbit adds, with a wave in the wizard’s direction, “if you purposefully choose to ignore them like _he does._ My word, Gandalf, the _things_ you told me confused the life out of me! And you knew it! Do you have any idea how utterly lost I was?”

  _[You unwashed, wet blanket, you?]_

 “Oh, yes,” Gandalf replies in an overly jolly tone, with a smile to match his eyes. “Oh, _yes,_ indeed.”

 “What did he say to you?” one of the dwarves demands, and so Bilbo answers.

 The hobbit tells them all about his and Gandalf’s confusing, disastrous, hilarious meeting outside Bag End. In which Gandalf asked about adventures and Bilbo was kept rather busy trying to understand why the wizard would be telling him that his lemon biscuits were bad and that his foot-hair had dried pieces of strawberry jelly.

 The dwarves roar with laughter, to the point where Ori falls the floor and doesn’t even bother to get up again until Bilbo stops talking. It’s only then that Ori can stop giggling for long enough.

 It’s such a success that Bilbo quickly launches into the story of the dinner party, starting with Dwalin’s arrival and complete with every single one of the unintentional sexual propositions – heavily-edited versions, however, for the sake of everyone’s peace of mind. Dwalin listens to this wide-eyed for the first bit, then slowly turns beet red as he fellows laughter at Bilbo’s description of Dwalin’s ignorant insistence that the carpets needed more salt and the walls less pepper.

 By the time that Bilbo is approaching Balin’s arrival, Dwalin has his head in his hands and isn’t coming up for air. Bofur has joined Ori (who fell again) on the floor, Balin is quite literally crying with laughter, and all the others are _howling_ or cackling merrily, including Gandalf. Bilbo should probably stop as an act of mercy, but he’s had… oh… shit… uh, maybe four glasses of wine by now?

 His judgement is kind of wobbly right now.

 Eh, it’s not matter. His Great-Aunt Mimosa would be ashamed if he stopped at only that – as would Granny Laura and Uncle Gorbadoc and all of his Took relatives. Bilbo will just keep going until he and Elvish wine and this story stop getting along so well.

 So… likely never. The best of time limits.

 Tauriel and Óin walk in just as Bilbo begins Balin’s part in the story. Óin thumps himself down next to his brother and takes Glóin’s goblet and downs it, then settles in like he expects to fall asleep within the next five minutes. He might. He looks exhausted.

 Meanwhile, Tauriel grabs a full bottle from next to Gandalf and sits herself down on the free side of Kíli’s bed, the side not occupied by Fíli. She announces loudly that Thorin will be well and is currently asleep under the watch of his Cousin Ironfoot and that no one is to inform King Thranduil of where she is, then she opens the bottle, takes a swig, and leans back like she plans to stay.

 Since, by this point, the elf has the entire Line of Durin in life-debt to her, and also because everyone else except for Bilbo is incapacitated by their own sense of humour, no one tells her to bugger off. Bilbo hadn’t any plans, but he especially doesn’t because Kíli, once he can breathe again, beams at her in an expression so blatant that he might as well have punched his growing infatuation in Bilbo’s face.

 Tauriel smiles softly back at him, as Kíli launches into a laughter-filled explanation of Bilbo’s story for her understanding. It’s hard to tell what she might be thinking, since her expression is much more muted, but she definitely seems… fond. Curious. Fascinated.

  _Huh. When did that happen?_

 Since it’s really none of his business, Bilbo continues his story. He’s had maybe four or five glasses of wine by this point and honestly couldn’t care less anyway. Besides, he isn’t nearly halfway done with these dwarves and that’s far more important.

 He starts in on everything that Balin accidentally said, which prompts Dwalin to finally look up from his hands, and continues on to Fíli and Kíli without delay, which soon has Dwalin roaring with laughter with all the others, and Balin, Fíli, and Kíli all completely red in the face.

 At Kíli’s parts, Tauriel’s laughter rings louder than any of them, and the injured prince can only apologize profusely to Bilbo again and again to save face. This just makes everyone, Tauriel and Fíli especially, laugh harder.

 From there, Bilbo takes great care in making each dwarf’s face go bright red or stark pale in turns. The best reaction, in his opinion, is when Dori nearly goes purple when Bilbo tells him that he proposed an orgy in Bilbo’s dining room, and when Nori chokes on his own laughter before turning a funny yellowish colour when Bilbo informs him that he enthusiastically agreed.

 “Why did you _say something?”_ one of the dwarves howls at some point.

 “Well, what do you say to something like that exactly?” Bilbo replies simply, before relating something somehow even more embarrassing than anything else before, and making the Company collapse once more into gasping laughter.

 Just when Bilbo is getting started on the very best of the comments on his doilies and kitchen cabinets, Bard the Bowman suddenly strides into the tent with very tired purpose.

 The Dragonslayer looks around at the many empty bottles of wine, the still-laughing crowd of dwarves around Bilbo, Ori asleep on the ground because he never got up, Óin and Dori asleep in their chairs, Kíli asleep in his cot, and Fíli showing Tauriel how he can spell his name in throwing knives on the back of Gandalf now-empty chair. Bard sighs heavily.

 “I have no idea what’s going on in here,” Bard says, his voice hoarse like someone recently shoved him out of bed and with the hair to match, “but people have been complaining about the noise apparently for hours now to the Elfking, who is in a bad mood already for a reason I’m sure has been well-appreciated by all of you, and I _really_ don’t want to mediate more elf and dwarf fighting.

 “It’s well past midnight,” Bard says. “Go the fuck to sleep.”

 ~

 Bilbo wakes up and the first thing he realizes is the quiet.

 The next thing he realizes is that his head hurts like he tried to kiss a swinging shovel.

 But there is a relatively comfortable surface beneath him, as well as a thick blanket over him, and, despite the raging headache, it feels a hundred times better than the last time he came into consciousness. The cot is warm, the world is well, and Bilbo’s first thought is that he probably shouldn’t have had those last three glasses of wine.

 Since he’s never really been one to roll back over and fall asleep again after he’s woken up, the hobbit stretches and slowly brings himself to a sitting position. He looks around the tent he’s occupying and has a warm, fuzzy feeling at the sight of several members of the Company, sprawled out or curled up in sleep on their own makeshift beds.

 Hearing their familiar snores makes him wonder the fuck must be wrong with him to have missed the sound. It’s like a group of sick pigs and geese choking, while cows stampede in the distance. It’s probably a sign of madness, but if it means having his friends close again, Bilbo thinks he can live with it.

 With a faint sense of wondrous disbelief, Bilbo realizes that he has no idea what’s to happen to. They’re alive and… well, frankly, he wasn’t really expecting them to be. Bilbo wasn’t exactly certain they would all die gruesomely, but he hasn’t paid much thought to what might happen afterwards and now he doesn’t know what to do.

 They _lived._

 Imagine that.

 Well, Bilbo decides, the only thing to do is figure out what he knows will happen and go from there.

 He’ll definitely be seeing Thorin again at some point, to collect that decent apology Thorin definitely owes him, probably apologize profusely to the point of embarrassment himself for his role in the disaster, and also be yelled at for traitorously leaving the King-Under-The-Mountain in the hands of an elf. That’s one thing that Bilbo can expect, can anticipate, can prepare for by coming up with some sort of strategy to avoid the whole thing. He’s not sure he’s ready to be in the same room as Thorin again. He’ll probably still go anyway, though. He really owes Thorin an apology as well, at least for bargaining away his people’s most prized possession and leaving him at Tauriel’s mercy.

 And then the other members of the Company will definitely want to be hearing more about Hobbitish and the Proper Ways. Once Bard interrupted Bilbo’s story, many of the dwarves – Balin and Nori and Bofur, mostly – were full of questions and curiosity about the unspoken language.

 Balin was curious as to how such a language could even come to be. Nori was curious about how specific and subtle it could get, and if it would be possible to learn some aspects of it. Bofur was mostly curious about why Bilbo didn’t say anything about it before now, since the Company really had said some very ridiciulous things and Proper Hobbitish seemed so important to hobbits.

 Mmm, Bilbo would definitely have to come up with answers to those questions. And then for all the questions that Fíli and Kíli and Ori would be asking when they woke up. They were bound to have them in mountainous amounts. Although there are really so many questions, and answers that become questions themselves, that Bilbo isn’t sure how to prepare for that.

 He isn’t even sure how he’d answer Balin and Nori’s questions. Hobbitish just sort of _is_ and it’s never been taught to someone already grown and of age before, as far as Bilbo knows.

 At least Bilbo will have one answer to give: he didn’t say anything because he was, at first, lost and confused and stuck in that horrible Proper Ways tradition of keeping spoken and Hobbitish conversation separate. Then it just didn’t make sense to try and force an entire language and culture on the Company for the sole purpose of Bilbo’s own comfort when there was a quest going on. Maybe they can come up with something better for it than using it to think oneself better than everyone else. 

 There are more important things than the way hobbits think everything should be done, Bilbo will answer, especially when sometimes it’s really just hard enough getting things done at all, out here away from safe green hills. He’s just grateful they all made it through this and honestly doesn’t give much of a damn about how or how many Proper Ways he shattered beyond recognition. That home is far behind him now.

 Bilbo lays back down on the bed and stares up at the tent ceiling.

 There’s so much more to the future than his interactions with the Company. There’s an entire kingdom to rebuild – two of them, actually, since both Erebor and Esgaroth are in ruins. Then there’s also the matter of the Elfking and whatever the hills he wants; also Dain Ironfoot, whom Bilbo has yet to meet, and whatever the dwarf lord wants; and what is to be done about that dreadful sea of gold in the Lonely Mountain and the dead-full desolation at the foot of it.

 Bloody hills, there’s so much to be done, and it’s all so important. It’s hard to pinpoint what’s the most important, but all of it has to happen soon because winter is really just around the bend now. There’s hard work and a harder winter ahead for these dwarves and men and elves, and after such a battle of such unprecedented alliances, it is sure to be an experience like no other.

 How could it not be after all that?

 Something new is coming. Something with so very much fantastic possibility and potential: to go absolutely great or absolutely horribly.

 Just thinking about it seems to put all of the hobbit’s problems in much better perspective. Hobbitish and the Proper Ways be damned, how in the hills are Thorin and the Elfking going to successfully churn out the collaboration needed here? They’ll be lucky if Bard doesn’t toss himself in the lake after the dragon from sheer frustration after only half-an-hour!

 Oh, this adventure that Bilbo signed on for should technically be done now, since the mountain is reclaimed, but life works so much differently than that. The Company of Thorin Oakenshield seems to be trudging ahead to further journeys and adventures. Adventures filled with an Elfking and dwarf lords and elf healers and a Dragonslayer and Lakepeople and a giant bear-man, and so very many more incredible things. It’s all more exciting and interesting and important than ever.

 And, honestly, all those complicated issues and technicalities aside, Bilbo… well…

 Bilbo wants in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There's isn't **a way things should be**. There's just what happens, and what we do."  
>  \- Terry Pratchett, _A Hat Full of Sky_
> 
> The best thing about endings is that they're always the beginning of something else. 
> 
> If you want to Rec & Reblog this fic on tumblr, there's a post [HERE.](https://lullabyknell.tumblr.com/post/154147558823/)
> 
> Let's see... final notes... 
> 
> The ring is laying low, because it genuinely didn't expect Bilbo would survive and it is Confuzzled. Also, wizard about. (What's a Hobbit fic without the looming shadow of that goshdarn ring in the background, amiright?) 
> 
> Gandalf didn't actually steal the wine. Legolas gave it to him as a "gift." Without Thranduil's knowledge/permission. 
> 
> Dain is looking after Thorin and giving him a lot of cousinly shit right now. As family does. 
> 
> Tauriel tried to go back to her king, but Legolas told her what he'd done, so she noped right out of there before Thranduil could see her. Hey, might as well go hang out with that cute dwarf for a while, right? Not much better to do. She's tired (she dealt with Thorin for a few hours) and (she's from Mirkwood) she wants to get drunk. 
> 
> Thranduil is the one who dragged Bard out of bed. 
> 
> And Bilbo's got a _lot_ of explaining to do and life to figure out. 
> 
> And the rest of his life to do it in. <3 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me, whether this is the first time you've read the fic or this is the rewrite for you too! This fic and it's AU has been a lot of fun and I hope it's brought you as much joy reading it as writing it brought me. Have a Happy New Year, everyone!

**Author's Note:**

> ~ [My Tumblr](https://lullabyknell.tumblr.com)  
> ~ [My 'The Hobbit' fic collection](http://archiveofourown.org/series/303120)  
> ~ Which also includes a very fun [Bilbo and Lobelia Fake Marriage Fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4545390/chapters/10346379)
> 
> ~ [Harry Potter fics](http://archiveofourown.org/series/282654) ~ [Dragon Age fics](http://archiveofourown.org/series/846084) ([including a Dragon!Hawke fic series](http://archiveofourown.org/series/857568)) ~ [Naruto fics](http://archiveofourown.org/series/530116) ([Team Seven vs. Paperwork: a crack Naruto fic series of mine](http://archiveofourown.org/series/376589)) ~ [Star Wars fics](http://archiveofourown.org/series/530113) ~ [and many more~!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LullabyKnell/works)


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